


L'amour en temps de guerre

by pricingham



Category: Beauty and the Beast (2017)
Genre: Death, Flashbacks, M/M, Mild Gore, Minor Character Death, Minor Character(s), Pining, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-17
Updated: 2018-07-02
Packaged: 2018-11-02 00:25:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 37
Words: 39,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10933131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pricingham/pseuds/pricingham
Summary: Collection of drabbles, all of them taking place during the war (maybe a couple after or before, as some kind of flashback or flashforward) -- the romantic stuff is a little sidelined but in some parts it'll be there and obvious.Chapters are not in chronological order.There really won't be a settled time for updates.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> there'll be some Portuguese in some of the chapters because I'm Portuguese (and super happy we were mentioned) and yeah that's it lmao  
> the translation will always be on the notes at the end, so don't worry  
> also none of these will be beta'd and keep in mind English is not my first language so I apologize for any mistakes, minor or not

Gaston woke up to the smell of smoke. Shouts, cries of help and ‘get more water!’ came from outside the tent, as intoxicating as the smoke itself. Gaston rubbed his eyes and tied his hair in a ponytail in a hurry, eyes adjusting to the contrast between the complete darkness of his tent and the bright orange-ish glow outside. A soldier erupted through his tent just as Gaston picked his shirt up from the floor and shook dirt off of it. “Captain! They set fire to two of our tents! We have three injured soldiers, sir,” he reported as Gaston buttoned his shirt up and put on his breeches and boots.

He began loading his pistol. “Where’s LeFou?,” he asked, putting his sword in its sheath.

“Trying to stop us from attacking, actually, sir.”

Gaston frowned. “What?”

“Gaston, thank God,” LeFou said, coming inside as if on cue. “They’re going to attack the others! I’ve told them it’s madness but they just won’t listen!”

“Go help the others with the tents and the injured,” he told the young soldier before turning to LeFou with a deadpan expression except for his light frown.

“Why are you armed?”

“To _fight_ , LeFou. That’s why we’re here.”

“No, Gaston,” he said urgently. “Listen to me, it’s not prudent, you’re going to get men _killed_.”

Gaston shook his head with a scoff and walked out, the heat of the fire making him break into a light sweat. He aimed at one of the enemy soldiers and shot, perfect precision, the bullet piercing his head. “Gaston,” he heard LeFou call from behind him. He took a hold of Gaston’s sleeve and pulled. “Don’t, please.”

Gaston’s blood was boiling. First, they attacked his camp in the middle of the night, then three of his men got injured and now, his aide-de-camp was trying to _forbid_ him of killing. _Him_! The captain! He turned to LeFou with a cold, furious expression. “If we don’t attack now, we’ll die, LeFou! They’re fucking bloodthirsty maniacs! There are already three injured, too!”

LeFou shrunk slightly, intimidated by his friend’s yelling. He retaliated almost immediately after pulling himself together. “If you attack now, you’ll die too!” He swallowed and when Gaston didn’t protest he continued, “With all due respect, it’s not wise. Captain,” he addressed him more formally, hoping it would get him to change his mind, “it’s not safe.”

Gaston nodded. “...Are _you_ captain?”

“I—”

“Are you captain?!”

LeFou jumped slightly. “No. But I, I’m your aide.”

“Do you know how many men we’ve lost this week alone?”

“...No, I do not but—”

“A _dozen_ ,” Gaston hissed, interrupting him. “We just got twenty more soldiers, and a _dozen_ of them are dead! Maybe more if those injured don’t survive. I will _not_ let anyone else die under _my_ command!,” he said, his face around three inches away from LeFou’s, who only trembled occasionally, sticking to his guns despite it.

“Gaston, please!”

“Please, what!? I’m their _leader_!” He gestured vaguely around him. “They trust me with their lives!”

“Gaston, I…” His grip tightened and Gaston followed his gaze, looking down at his arm. LeFou was barely even touching his skin, tugging simply at his shirt. “We already lost so many,” he said with a shake of his head. He looked up at Gaston, who held a breath when he noticed tears in LeFou's eyes. “Please, I can't… I can't lose you too, Gaston.” He sniffed. “I want you safe.” He shook his head again. “It's not wise to attack, it's not a good idea.” His voice was small, shaking ever so slightly. He suppressed a sob, although Gaston had already noticed the tears that rolled down his cheeks. “Gaston, please,” he begged and his voice was barely above a whisper.

Gaston swallowed, his heart heavy in his chest from seeing LeFou hurt. He took a deep breath and put a soothing hand to his cheek, shushing him. “I'll be alright. I already survived a year of this,” he said. “I won't die now.”

“You don't know.”

“I'm Gaston,” he said with a grin that oozed classic Gaston charm.

LeFou, however, was unaffected by it. “You're as mortal as I am.”

Gaston raised his eyebrows in some sort of ‘you're not exactly wrong’ gesture but then proceeded with a calm “I promise you, none of us will die tonight.” He smiled softly at him. “I'm a man of my word, LeFou,” he reminded.

He nodded slowly in agreement, although still crying silently. “Please be safe,” he whispered to him, letting go of his sleeve reluctantly.

“I will,” he said. He handed LeFou a handkerchief. “For your nose,” he clarified, making LeFou smile and blush a little. “My men need me,” he said, the leading posture of a captain replacing the caring one of a friend. “Defend the camp.”

LeFou nodded once. He nodded again, with more conviction. And then again a third time, pure determination in his eyes. Gaston gave him an encouraging smile and withdrew his hand, patting him gently on the shoulder. He turned and walked into the battlefield, pistol in hand, sword in sheath. Ready to take on as many men as he physically and possibly could. Ready to win.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> emetophobia warning - there's a mention of throwing up

He was at a loss. Men, _his_ men, kept falling beside him, losing blood so quickly they died before reaching the medic. A breath — he'd rather not call it a whimper — escaped his lips as he heard another explosion too close to him. Gaston yelled, “Retrieve!” and so everyone did, following their Captain's orders. He walked away with a sneer on his lips as the Portuguese laughed in victory and yelled words Gaston could not understand (“Isso, fujam! Seus cobardes de merda!”). “Twenty men,” he murmured, throwing his sword on the ground. “Twenty men!,” he shouted, sitting down.

“Gaston,” LeFou started, only to be interrupted by an uninvited visitor.

“Gaston,” he repeated, although unlike LeFou's, his voice oozed pain and anger. “You're a terrible captain!”

“What's it this time, Hugo? Can’t you go one day without accusing me of killing one of your lovers?”

“How fuckin’—” Hugo would have hit Gaston, he was sure of it, were it not for the couple of men that had walked into the tent with him. They held him back as he swore and cursed Gaston's name and family. “They're all dead! Thanks to you!,” he shouted, pointing an accusing finger at him.

“Oh, I see.” LeFou watched from the bed as Gaston acted nonchalantly, seemingly unaffected by the accusations. He knew this to be false, he could notice a muscle above his left eyebrow twitch. “So, you're saying you could lead these men better than I am leading them now?”

Hugo stood still, silent.

“I asked you a question, soldier. Oh, I apologize. Hugo,” Gaston corrected himself with a smile that didn't reach his eyes by far. “Did you _not_ want me to be informal with you?,” he asked, feigning confusion. “Is that not why you entered my tent without warning and called me by my name? I'm sorry, Hugo, but if there's a reason you're not dead and buried with your friends,” Gaston said calmly with a smile as he got up and walked up to the shorter man. The smile disappeared. “That reason is _me_ ,” he growled, towering over Hugo, who cowered. “I suggest you remember that next time you decide to barge in your captain’s tent and accuse him of being a poor leader,” he threatened, low voice even rougher than usual.

Hugo clenched his jaw, shaggy beard wet with tears of rage. “I apologize… Captain.” He said the title with a poisonous touch to it. He walked out, his two friends following suit.

Gaston sat down by his table and picked up his hunting dagger, neither him nor LeFou speaking. Gaston spun it between his fingers, eyes on it. He eyed LeFou for a second, who seemed to be holding a breath, and stabbed the wood of the table in a sudden outburst of anger, piercing the map with the blade. LeFou had jumped and was now looking at him. “Twenty, soldiers.”

“I'm sorry we lost so many,” he heard LeFou say.

Gaston shook his head, fingers to his mouth. “No, LeFou. It's them who have to apologize. Not you.”

LeFou nodded gently and Gaston’s heart began racing. They stood in silence and Gaston thought about how he faced the situation and how LeFou would have. He'd always liked it, he thought, the contrast between them. Not just in physique, like most people would point out. In personality, too. Gaston was short-tempered, somewhat rude, very loud too. He was wrath incarnated. LeFou, on the other hand, was calm and kind. If Gaston were fire, LeFou would be water. Calm, soothing, there to extinguish him whenever things got out of hand. Gaston smiled slightly when he remembered the contrast between their voices. His favorite, to be quite honest. Gaston's rough, deep voice always clashing with LeFou's high pitched, smooth one. They completed each other. “LeFou,” he called.

“Yes, sir?”

Gaston frowned slightly. “Sir?”

His eyes widened and he stammered, growing red on the cheeks. “Gaston.”

“Yes, that is my name,” he joked.

“Well, what is it?”

“...Why did you call me sir?”

“Huh, habit.”

Gaston smiled. He sighed. “Do you think they're right?”

“About you being a bad leader?”

Gaston nodded, making traces of LeFou's face in the near complete darkness, the only source of light now a dim candle.

“Of course not, Gaston! Hugo just envies you. You know he wanted to be captain but then you came up, more qualified than he'll ever be. So, now I suppose he just holds some sort of grudge against you.”

Gaston frowned before nodding slightly. “How odd would it be for me to ask you to stay in here overnight?” Despite the poor lighting he still managed to see LeFou's cheeks reddening a bit more.

He stuttered. “I, huh, not at all. I am your aide, after all.”

“...Indeed.” Gaston let out a breath and got up. He sat down on the bed and stripped down to his undergarments, before lying down. “Are you alright?”

“Yes,” LeFou sighed.

Gaston nodded to himself and moved a hand to slowly remove the ribbon from LeFou's hair. He felt an urge to touch him, touch his now naked shoulders, his skin. Kiss it, too. Gaston blamed it on the stress the war had brought. In no other circumstance would he think of sleeping with his lifelong best friend. Of course not. He was Gaston, after all, a known heartbreaker amongst the ladies.

“Gaston,” LeFou almost gasped as he felt small, careful kisses on his shoulder. Gaston bit at the soft flesh of his neck, careful not to draw blood, and LeFou whined, hands tightening into fists.

Gaston stared at the bite mark before sighing and resting his forehead on it. “Stress,” he excused. “Did that hurt?”

“...A bit.”

“I'm sorry.”

“No, I… Huh, I liked it, actually.”

Gaston chuckled. “Do you mind lying down near the wall?”

“Not really.”

Gaston nodded. They stood like that for a moment, Gaston feeling a knot form at his throat. He swallowed past it and got up. He got a nearly empty flask, drank the remaining whiskey, and filled it again.

“Gaston, you need to take it easy with the drinking.”

He finished drinking, leaving the flask half empty and closed it. “It has yet to take its toll on me, don't worry.”

“It's not that. I mean, it's that too but…” Gaston lied down next to him after stretching. “I'm just worried about _why_ you're drinking.”

Gaston sighed. “It's nothing for you to worry about. Just get some rest, yes?”

LeFou nodded. “ _Bonne nuit_ ,” he murmured, turning around.

“I… have no idea what that means.”

“Goodnight,” he repeated.

Gaston nodded and murmured it back. He closed his eyes, though sleep didn't come easy. He was too uneasy to actually sleep well, the tiniest of sounds setting off an alarm in his brain. LeFou already snored softly when Gaston relaxed enough to drift off to sleep. Nightmares filled every second of it. Everyone he held dear dead and hurt, and Gaston himself unable to do anything. He woke up with a startle, drenched in cold sweat. He heard himself sob and looked over at LeFou, who was now facing him, however still asleep.

Gaston broke down crying, the sobs making his body tremble, dinner rising up to his throat. He couldn't bear it and so turned around and emptied his stomach.

“Gaston?,” he heard a soft voice call over his coughing and gagging. “Gaston.”

He spit on the floor, wiped his mouth to his arm and turned to lie down on his back. LeFou rubbed his eyes and brushed his hair away from them, then moving his hands to do the same with Gaston's. It was slightly harder once it was sticking to his forehead and temples with sweat. Gaston closed his eyes, too exhausted to complain about his friend's soothing hands. He suppressed a sob.

“It's okay,” LeFou whispered, shushing him. “You're alright.”

“I killed them.”

“Killed who, Gaston?”

“My family,” he murmured. “Yours.”

“Gaston, _they_ killed them. You saved me and you saved your men.”

“I didn't do anything to save my mother.”

“You couldn't have known he was going to shoot. You're not to blame.” He pressed a tentative kiss to Gaston's forehead.

“Thank you, LeFou,” he said, half asleep, after a moment of silence.

“Anything for you.”

Gaston fell asleep again, the tears now dried on his cheeks, LeFou's hands gentle on his arms as he kneaded with care.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Isso, fujam! Seus cobardes de merda!" - "That's right, run away! You fucking cowards!"


	3. Chapter 3

He had lost his family to illness, few years back, the only survivor besides himself being his mother. Both of them had been destroyed and left with a hollow that no amount of inherited money could fill. They left their home, the loss too much for them to bear still living there, and moved to a small house inside the village. They weren't poor, far from it actually, once grand-papa Jules came from a bourgeois family and had left them a nearly endless heritage that Gaston was still spending. She got a job at the tavern and together with the money from her father, managed through life with her child, both clinging to each other, too scared to lose one another.

And now he just had. He lost her.

Gaston cradled his mother close to his chest, shaking in shock, the blood staining his waistcoat and hands, LeFou's hand on his shoulder. “Let me bury her,” he whispered, the open fire ending at a shout of the enemy's captain.

“Gaston, I don't think—”

“Let me bury her,” he repeated, this time louder, although his voice still trembled. He still held the body close, face buried in her curls.

“LeFou and I will tell the others to retreat,” monsieur Ernest, the doctor, told him.

LeFou protested, “What? I can’t leave him like this!”

“Go.”

“Gaston—”

“I said, _go_.” He didn’t look at his friend, but he didn’t really need to to know he was walking away reluctantly. “I’m sorry,” he whispered into his mother’s ear. He withdrew, still holding her with care. Her eyes were open, the soothing brown now flat. Gaston closed them and pressed a kiss to her brow. He clenched his jaw, not allowing himself to break down. He stood to his feet, his mother in his arms, blood dripping on the dirt and grass below.

Gaston walked, and he walked, and he walked. Walked in a straight line until his body was shaking too much with suppressed sobs. He took a deep breath. He stood in the hillside now, the town’s graveyard, staring down into Villeneuve. He should have let her stay. She’d be safe.

He walked to his father’s grave. “You’ll be okay here,” he told his mother. He lied her down near her spouse’s grave and walked to get the shovel. Her grave was ready in under ten minutes. Gaston fixed her hair, kissed her forehead, and put her down. “I’ll win this war for you.” He nodded. “I’ll win this war for you,” he repeated, slightly louder, tears threatening to spill. He wiped his eyes and refilled the grave. Gaston picked up a small stick and drew the star of David on the dirt. He kissed his thumb and pressed it to the middle of the star.

Villeneuve was filled with Catholics, as was the entirety of France, but that only made him admire his parents and grandfather’s strength more. They had never converted to Catholicism, always loyal to their Jewish faith, despite the townspeople's attempts. Gaston himself wasn’t exactly religious; he had been raised Jewish and was still attached to his Jewish roots — his parents and grand-papa Jules were Ashkenazi — but he didn’t really hold any belief.

He got up to his feet and looked over at the other two graves. Marie’s, a smaller grave, and next to hers his grandfather’s. He had lost everyone. Everyone, that is, except for LeFou. LeFou, who was waiting for him at the camp. LeFou, who he had met and befriended thanks to their shared faith and ethnicity. LeFou, his closest and dearest of friends.

He'd win this war for _them_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i made them jewish for like no reason other than projecting and josh gad


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this? pure sadness and gayness

There were shots coming from every place, Gaston trying to reciprocate them as much as he could. He saw a familiar figure not too far away from him, hiding near a barrel. Gun always in hand for protection, he walked towards it. He kneeled next to his friend, careful not to startle him. “LeFou,” he whispered.

He turned to Gaston, eyes wide and cheeks stained with tears. “Oh, thank Heavens, Gaston. I thought, I thought I lost you,” he murmured through light sobs and moved a hand to grasp at his shirt.

Gaston shushed him. “I’m here. Where’s your mother? I thought I’d seen her with you.”

“I don’t know, I lost her. She was with me one second and, and then in the other she had just vanished.”

Gaston frowned and looked around. “Let’s find her,” he said, once the open fire ceased. LeFou nodded and followed his friend closely, face practically buried in his shirt, hand pulling at his sleeve.

“Gaston, on your left,” he whispered hurriedly. Gaston turned and shot accurately, grinning when the soldier fell to the ground. He felt the grip on his sleeve disappear and his grin faded.

“LeFou?” His heart was racing now more than ever, eyes darting around his surroundings. He licked his lips, already wet with sweat and kept looking around for his missing friend.

“I found her! I found her, Gaston!,” he heard. Gaston turned around, his eyes widening when he noticed at where LeFou was ecstatically pointing at. A soldier, the last one standing it seemed, was aiming at his mother. He ran towards him urgently and pulled him close. “Gaston, what are you doing?,” he asked, his voice strained, as he tried to turn around. A strong hand on his head stopped from doing so.

“Hush. Stay still.” He aimed at the soldier carefully, walking with LeFou to the dark.

“Gaston—”

He kissed LeFou’s head with care before shooting. “Stay still,” he repeated.

“What did you do?”

Gaston clenched his jaw. He could hear the sadness in LeFou’s voice. “Stay still.” He put his pistol away and put his arm around LeFou, holding him close. “I’m sorry,” he blurted out.

“What did you do?”

“I had to protect you.”

“Gaston, what the _fuck_ did you do!?,” he shrieked, finally getting himself free from Gaston’s grip, pushing him away.

“He was going to kill you!”

“...You let her die?,” he asked, incredulous, tears starting to fall. “You let her die!”

“It was either her or you, LeFou! You’re my friend, I couldn’t just let you die!”

“No, but you can let _my mother_ die, apparently!”

Gaston took in a breath, trying to stop his own tears. He hated arguing with LeFou, he _hated_ it. Hated seeing him sad, hated seeing him angry at him. It pained him. “LeFou, I couldn’t… I had to save you.”

LeFou let out a skeptical scoff and sat down, shaking. “I hate you.”

Gaston didn’t speak for a bit, too hurt to do so. “LeFou, I’m sorry.”

“How could you let her… She was my mother!”

“I had to save you,” he repeated, voice shaking. He cleared his throat and said it again, “I _had_ to save you.”

LeFou wiped away his tears to the back of his hand and got up. He gulped and walked up to Gaston, who took a step back. LeFou was short but he wasn’t weak, Gaston knew this. And he knew if he was angry, _really_ angry, someone would get hurt. “I didn’t… I don’t hate you.”

“You understand, yes?”

It took him a while but LeFou nodded. He looked up at Gaston with those soft, gentle eyes, now brimming with tears. “I don’t hate you.”

“...I know,” he said, walking towards him. He pulled him close again and this time LeFou didn’t stiffen. He leaned into the embrace, holding Gaston back, his hands gripping at his friend’s waistcoat. “You’re safe. You’re okay.” LeFou sobbed into his chest and Gaston ran his hand through his hair gently. “I won’t let you die,” he whispered into his curls. “I promise. I promise you, LeFou, as long as I’m by your side, you will not die.”

LeFou nodded.

They stood like that for some time, LeFou crying and sobbing and sniffing against Gaston’s chest, clinging onto him, Gaston himself holding LeFou as close as he could, oddly gentle hands on his head. Gaston let his eyes slip close, and suppressed a sob as he thought of what he almost had lost.

“Gaston.”

“Yes?”

“...I love you.”

Gaston froze. Surely he didn’t mean it like _that_. He just loved him as a close friend. And Gaston loved him as such too. So he wasn’t exactly _lying_ when he replied with an “I love you too”. (He wouldn’t be exactly lying if he meant it like two lovers love each other, either.) “You’re safe with me.”

“I trust you.” He sobbed. “I can protect you too.”

Gaston nodded and kissed the top of his head softly. “I know. I know you can.”

“We’re _Le Duo_ ,” LeFou said, a tinge of hope in his voice. “Right?”

Gaston laughed. “Yes, we are.”


	5. Chapter 5

They were all ready when the sun set. Monsieur Charles, the cook, was now putting the fire out, his duty of serving the soldiers with supper done.

“Soldiers,” Gaston said, putting down his bowl, finished with the stew. He rose to his feet, hands on his hips. “Tonight, we win,” he spoke, always in that theatrical fashion of his. “Tonight, we save our village. We save our wives, our friends, our children, our _lives_.” Everyone looked up at him, enthralled by his speech. “And last, but definitely not least, our _country_!”

The men applauded loud and clear, and Gaston straightened. He put his hand to LeFou’s shoulder. He gave him an encouraging smile and LeFou realized he was supposed to speak. “Oh, I, huh,” he stuttered.

“Come now, old friend. I’m sure you have something to say after these years of fighting side by side with these men.”

“Well, it’s been… an honor. And I know we, huh, we’ve lost many soldiers throughout these years but, well, the fact you’re all here still is an act of pure bravery.”

Gaston grinned, satisfied. “There you have it, folk!” His grin faded slowly and took a deep breath. “Alright, we’re all armed, yes?” Everyone confirmed so and Gaston wet his lips, adrenaline already pumping through his veins. “Let’s save this village and kill those monsters,” he said with an almost feral grin, his eyes glistening.

He lived for _this_. The rush of killing, the very thrill of hunting the enemy down. Gaston came to a stop and the soldiers that walked behind stopped as well. He squinted. The camp appeared to be deserted, every soldier in bed. He smirked to himself and turned around. He mouthed slowly to be clear, “I will go to the captain’s tent myself.” His men nodded. All except LeFou, who looked at him, worried. He walked hurriedly but carefully to Gaston.

“Gaston,” he whispered. “What do you think you’re doing?”

He didn’t reply, simply turned to his soldiers and nodded towards the enemy camp. They nodded back and headed there, leaving their captain and his aide behind.

“Gaston,” LeFou hissed.

Gaston grabbed his arm and walked away to a safer place to talk. “Will you let me do this?,” he said, voice still low.

“What, why? So you can _die_?”

“So I can save this village! I won’t die. We’ll win this war tonight, LeFou.”

LeFou breathed heavily, close to tears. “I don’t… I don’t know what will be of me without you, Gaston… I’m not letting you kill yourself. This is suicide, Gaston, and I am _not_ going to let you commit it.”

Gaston sighed. He knew there was only one way to make LeFou change his mind. It wasn’t pretty and Gaston wasn’t proud of using it, but it was the price to pay to save Villeneuve. He put his hands to LeFou’s cheeks and bumped foreheads softly.

“This won’t work,” LeFou murmured. But his voice trembled with emotion as so did he, and it was enough to disprove his statement.

“They need me, LeFou… Please,” he said and he could barely believe himself when the words escaped his lips, “my love.”

LeFou’s eyes were screwed shut, tears rolling down his cheeks. Gaston wasn’t entirely sure of where the truth ended and the manipulation began in what followed.

“If I don’t go there soon and get the captain, my men will die. _Our_ men will die. And then they’ll come for us, no doubt. Do you want me gone, _mon chou_?” He said the pet name with as much conviction as he could. He didn’t know what it meant by far, but he recalled his parents calling each other by that. It only meant it was supposed to be endearing. And it had worked — LeFou was crying, now looking up at Gaston with glazed eyes; the love so, so clear in them.

“Gaston—”

He interrupted him with a kiss, and LeFou as if melted into his touch. “Trust me,” he whispered.

LeFou nodded gently, eyes closed. He pulled Gaston close. “Promise me you’ll be careful,” he whispered, loving.

Gaston kissed him again, almost scared he actually meant it. “I will.”

LeFou nodded again and let him go, if a bit reluctantly. Gaston turned and walked towards camp. The Portuguese were silent. Gaston smiled. His plan was going perfectly. He walked to the captain’s tent, pistol in hand. He pressed the barrel to the man’s temple, waking him up. He turned to Gaston slowly.

“All your soldiers are either dead or dying. Surrender?,” he asked smugly.

The man didn’t speak Gaston’s language and so it was harder for him to understand the threat. When he did, his eyes widened.

“Nem todos,” a voice from behind Gaston said.

Gaston withdrew the hunting dagger from the small sheath on the side of his breeches and turned around. He stabbed the intruder in the eye, blood oozing and running down his cheek. His mouth opened in a voiceless cry. Gaston stabbed him then again in the other eyes, blood staining his and as he moved to stab him in the throat. He opened the jugular and the soldier was now crying, helpless, face drenched in blood and tears. Gaston moved his free hand to grip his hair and yanked his head back. He slit his throat as he would a deer’s and grinned when even more blood sprayed onto his shirt and skin. He licked whatever amount had fallen on his lips and let the soldier go. His chest was heaving with deep and fast breaths, Gaston’s hands sweaty, his head reeling. He turned to the captain and pointed the pistol at him once more. “Surrender?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Nem todos" - "not all of them"


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: this will be gay  
> me: posts nothing but Emo Shit  
> k but seriously next one will be gay And emo + fastforward! so thts always fun yeah  
> either tht or just gay and Hype

Gaston walked out the inn, the curiosity too big for him to stay inside. His mother had told him to stay because his father, sister and grandfather had fallen ill. It couldn’t be that bad, he thought to himself as he walked home. His mother was known to exaggerate after all. But the crowd in front of his house told him otherwise.

A few dozen people stood there, all of them familiar faces. Friends of papa, maman, and even grandpapa. Monsieur Jean, for his surprise, stood there too. He wasn’t sure if he had imagined it or if Belle and her father were there too.

Gaston’s heart hammered in his chest as he made way. “Let me through!,” he called, trying his best to sound authoritative despite being no older than thirteen. “Gentlemen. I’m here to see my family,” he told the two men guarding the door, hands on his hips.

“Your mother said no one could enter.”

“Well, they’re my _family_ , monsieur.”

“Your mother said no one, Gaston. No one means _no one_. They’re sick.”

“ _And_? I’ve been sick before and I survived it.” He walked past them. They knew it was useless to try and get him to do otherwise.

His mother stood next to his father’s bed. She wiped his face with a small wet rag as he coughed. Grandpapa Jules’s body trembled with his, his grey hair more disheveled than usual, sticking to his temples with sweat. One of the doctors stood by Marie’s bed and Gaston ran up to her as soon as he left.

“Gaton? You can’t,” — she coughed —, “you can’t be here.”

“Gaston!,” his mother called. “I told them not to let anyone in!”

Gaston froze. He had never heard or seen his mother so scared. He had never seen Marie so pale. “Is she going to die?”

His mother scoffed and dragged him outside. She turned to the tavern keeper as she pushed Gaston. “You take care of him. Don’t let him in.”

“Yes, madame.” He held Gaston by his arm, but Gaston was a tall, strong kid and managed to get away after a few pulls. He was beyond worried, running inside without thinking. Gaston hid under the table as his mother passed by. He picked a book that had fallen on the floor. Gaston couldn’t really read — he had tried and failed, it was useless for his future job as a hunter too — but he could form words when he tried hard enough. The book he held was named “Shakespeare MacBeth”. He didn’t know what any of those words meant but they were pretty.

He looked around. His mother seemed to be gone and so he walked to Marie slowly.

She smiled at him, a weak little thing. Her lips were chapped and faded, sweaty. “It’s dangerous,” she said.

“I don’t care.” He put _Shakespeare MacBeth_ on her lap. “You like this one, right? I can, I can try to read it.” He put his hair back. Then, he brushed away some strands of Marie’s hair that stuck to her face in a cold sweat.

“You’re truly the best brother I could ask for.”

Gaston sniffed. “Yeah, you’re definitely sick.”

Marie chuckled. She opened the book with feeble fingers and browsed through it slowly.

“Gaston!”

He jumped and turned around, eyes wide. “Let me stay!”

“You can’t! You’ll get sick!

He turned to Marie, who was now looking up at them. “Marie, please” he choked out. “Tell her to let me stay.”

“Gaston,” she called. “It’s okay.” She moved to hand him the book. “You can keep it.”

“I don’t want it!” He was now crying, tears overflowing and falling down his cheeks. “I want my _sister_! I want you and, and grandpapa and papa! I want you all alright!” He sobbed, shaking. “Please, Marie.”

“I’ll be alright, I promise. Maman, let me just show him something.”

She sighed, in tears, and let Gaston go. He looked down to where Marie was pointing and wiped his tears to the back of his hand.

“This right here,” she said, “is one of my favorite quotes.”

“What, what does it say?”

She cleared her throat and read out loud, “‘Screw your courage to the sticking place’.”

Gaston nodded. “It means to, hum, be brave, right?”

Marie nodded with a smile. “Mhm! So, promise me you’ll screw your courage to the sticking place.”

Gaston closed his eyes and nodded. He hugged her quickly but tightly. “I will. For you and for them,” he said.

“I love you,” Marie told him. “I know I’ve never said it a lot but… I do.”

“I love you too,” Gaston said with a sniff.

“Gaston, let’s go,” his mother said through tears.

He couldn’t grasp how much it must have hurt. Losing a daughter, a husband, a father. She was so strong. Gaston wiped away his tears. He’d be strong too. He’d be worth for the three of them. He’d never cry and never back away from a fight. He’d never be weak. He’d always go through with his word. He’d make his mother proud of him. He’d make Marie proud of him. He’d make his father proud of him. He’d make his grandfather proud of him. He’d be the great hunter Gaston. The great _everything_ Gaston.

He clenched his fists and walked away to the inn, leaving his house behind. Gaston meant being strong now. Gaston meant being the best. And so he became.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> like i do not Get ppl who think gaston read shakespeare to know the screw ur courage to the sticking place line like nah dude could barely even write deer and thts what his dad hunt lmao


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Angst Is Here

He opened his eyes slowly, the movement next to him too much for him to be able to sleep. Gaston blinked and turned around. LeFou was tossing in his sleep, his breathing fast, and Gaston couldn’t tell exactly if his cheeks were wet with tears or sweat. LeFou tightened his fists.

Gaston put a hand to LeFou’s cheek and patted it lightly. “LeFou.” He kept gasping and shaking, the small smack having no effect on him. “Wake up.” He let out a sob and Gaston felt his heart sink. The war had taken a toll on both of them. People always thought and spoke of how Gaston was the one with the most scars, the one who had suffered the most through it all. Fact was that both of the men had suffered equally, for their distress. Some nights were good, but others were terrible. Either one of them would call for the other, worried, terrified. And so Gaston had the idea of sleeping in the same bed so no yelling had to be done. “LeFou,” he called again, this time louder, hands still cupping his face.

LeFou darted his eyes open and gasped for air. Gaston shushed him, brushing away strands of hair that stuck to LeFou’s face in cold sweat. “It’s alright. You’re alright. We’re safe. We’re okay, I promise you.”

LeFou didn’t speak for some time, simply stared at Gaston with glassy eyes. He blinked. “The war is over,” he said, still breathless and sobbing. “Right?”

“Yes, it is. We won. We’re okay.”

LeFou nodded.

“Do you want to talk about whatever you dreaming about?”

He shrugged. Gaston watched as his Adam’s apple bobbed slightly. LeFou wiped his tears to the back of his hands and moved closer to Gaston. “I… You were hurt and everything was…” He wet his lips. “Up in flames. And there was blood everywhere.” He began tearing up again as he remembered the nightmare, tears falling when he closed his eyes, and Gaston wiped them away with his thumb. “I was left all alone. I… I lost you, and it was so scary.”

Gaston shushed him once more. “It’s alright, LeFou. I promise you won’t lose me. I’ll always find my way back to you,” he whispered.

LeFou sighed and nodded. He opened his eyes and smiled softly at him. Gaston’s gaze moved down to his lips and he leaned slowly to kiss him. LeFou didn’t withdraw. It was soft and secure, something that made both of them feel warm and safe. “You won’t lose me,” Gaston murmured.

LeFou nodded gently and put his forehead to Gaston’s collarbone. Gaston wrapped his arms around him and pulled him close, LeFou hugging him back, soft arms on hard muscle. He pressed a kiss to LeFou’s forehead as he let the last tears fall.

They wouldn’t talk about it in the morning. It’d be acknowledged with a “Did you sleep well?” and an “Are you feeling better?” but nothing more. Neither of them would mention the soft kissing, the embracing, the tears and sobs from both men. And, above all, both would pretend to forget about Gaston’s gentle, caring side. It was much smaller than his usual smug, cocky aura, anyway. Not that it mattered to LeFou. If he could forget about the atrocities Gaston had committed during the war, and about the dark side he had to him, LeFou could definitely forget about trivialities such as ‘he’s more selfish than he is caring’.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw self harm like P Detailed sorry i had to make him suffer lmao

A week had passed since his mother had died. Gaston’s performance in the battlefield had obviously decreased due to it and he was closer to a mental breakdown than ever before. “You have to mourn,” LeFou would tell him. “It’s okay if you give in and cry.” But he didn’t have to mourn and it wasn’t okay to cry. He had a war to win. He was Captain Gaston, for Christ’s sake. He had to lead those men to victory.

He thought about it as he sat by his desk, the dim candlelight the only thing stopping his tent from being in total darkness. It was silent, the only audible thing was the singing of the cicadas outside and his deep, ragged breathing. Everyone else was asleep. Gaston found himself unable to do so. He had tried but he kept tossing and turning, his head reeling. He was too alert to relax and drift off to sleep properly.

He eyed the pistol on his desk and pulled it closer to him. Better safe than sorry.

His side was hurting and itching. The battle that day had taken a great toll on every soldier. Five men had died and Gaston had gotten six new scars thanks to the Portuguese. But none of them hurt quite as much as the one in his right side.

Gaston’s hand trembled as he undid his waistcoat and shirt, throwing them over the back of his chair after. His eyes brimmed with tears as he picked up his hunting dagger, said tears that spilled once he closed his eyes. He pressed the tip of the blade to the beginning of the scar, hands shaking. His breath hitched when the dagger pierced the healing skin, blood sprouting underneath the blade. He clenched his jaw and shut his eyes tightly, suppressing a sob. He thrust the blade in deeper and moved to grip at the desk, letting out a whimper.

He deserved it. He had let his mother _die_ , after everything she had done for him. After she cared after him and made sure he had a great life. He had just… let her die. He practically killed her.

Gaston sobbed and put his forehead to the hard wooden desk. He dragged the blade through the wound, opening it further and sending jolts of pain through his body as it convulsed with sobs.

He dropped the dagger and put his now free hand to the newly fresh wound. He was crying now, really crying. Tears stained the notes he had spread on the desk, sobs making him shake. Gaston didn’t do anything to keep himself quiet, not that he could have — the pain made him feel too lightheaded.

“Gaston?,” a sleepy voice called from outside. LeFou.

He wanted to reply, to tell him to go away and leave him alone, but all that left his lips was a choked whimper.

“Gast— Gaston! Jesus!” His voice was close now.

“Leave,” he choked out.

He felt soft hands on top of his, pressing to the wound. “What? No! You’re bleeding out! How did this even…” His voice slowed down, although it was still urgent, as he murmured a “happen…?” Gaston opened his eyes only to be met with LeFou’s worried gaze. “You stabbed yourself?”

Gaston looked away, still crying, although now he tried to suppress it, to make it stop.

“Gaston, what happened?”

“Nothing did, just leave.”

“I’m not leaving you to die.”

“LeFou.”

“ _Gaston_.”

There was a moment of silence where they just stared at each other. “Just go get the doctor or something then!,” he snapped.

“Don’t yell at me! ...Just keep pressing at the wound,” he told him, getting Gaston’s shirt to serve as a rag.

Gaston watched him get up and broke down again when LeFou left his tent. He didn’t know how long it took for him to come back. He jumped slightly when he felt a gentle hand on his shoulder. LeFou was next to him again, this time on his left as to not bother the medic as he patched Gaston up once more.

“You pushed yourself, didn’t you, Captain?”

“Yes,” he murmured, lying. LeFou pressed a soft kiss to Gaston’s temple, quick enough for Ernest not to notice.

Ernest patted the wound lightly, making Gaston hiss. “Don’t even _think_ of opening the wound again. Now, let me sleep, would you two?,” he said, getting up. He walked out and LeFou kissed Gaston’s temple again, more slowly this time.

“Do you want to tell me anything?”

Gaston shook his head. He still trembled, however less noticeably.

“Gaston…”

“I killed her,” he whispered. He bit his lower lip and moved to get his flask.

“Your mother?”

Gaston nodded, then drank as much as he could. He grimaced at the taste of the alcohol. “I deserve to hurt. What kind of son kills their own mother?”

“You didn’t kill her. Gaston, you had no idea he was going to shoot.” LeFou tucked strands of Gaston’s hair behind his ear with care. “You tried your best.”

“Well, my best obviously wasn’t enough now, was it?,” he hissed.

“It’s enough for all the men that are still alive. Had it been anyone else our leader we would be dead by now for sure. It’s been two years and look at us. We’re closer to victory than ever before... You managed to keep most of us alive. People die in the war, Gaston. That’s just how it is. We’re all so lucky to have someone like you leading us to victory. You have an incredibly low mortality rate compared to any other captain… You’re amazing.”

Gaston closed his eyes and nodded. “I am.”

“Yeah, you are. I mean, you were captain at _seventeen_! There hasn’t been any captain in France as young!”

Gaston smiled at him. “Thank you, LeFou.”

“Well, you’re the easiest person to bolster.”

They stared at each other in silence. It was better than before, the air wasn’t as heavy. Gaston could feel some kind of tension and so he waited. He waited for LeFou’s confession of love. He knew his friend liked him much more than that and, deep down, he knew he felt the same. But Captain Gaston besides great was also proud, and therefore would never admit to having such feelings, let alone towards his closest and oldest friend. But, surprising himself, he was the one confessing. “You’re the best.” Sure, it wasn’t direct, but Gaston wouldn’t compliment anyone other than himself and LeFou definitely knew it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just watched beauty of a tale and bill condon Confirmed gaston became captain at 17 how inch resting


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this time: Gaston Is A Big Gay

Gaston gripped the rifle tighter and aimed at one of the soldiers. If he could take him down, the canon wouldn’t go off. Gaston wet his lips and counted down under his breath. “Four.” His finger trembled slightly against the trigger. “Three.” His aim was perfected — right in the middle of the forehead. “Two.” He closed his right eye. “One.” He took in a breath, holding it. “ _Fire_.” He hissed the order at himself and shot, the bullet flying through the battlefield. Gaston let out the breath in a relieved sigh when the soldier fell to the ground dead. He grinned and reloaded the rifle, this time ready to aim at a soldier that was about to shoot Tom in the back. “Coward,” he growled, just as he pulled the trigger. The only target one should shoot from behind were animals. He groped the small sack he kept for bullets next to his trousers, finding it empty.

“Want some?”

“Sure,” he replied, without looking at the generous soldier. He loaded his gun and aimed at yet another soldier loading the cannon from before.

The soldier next to Gaston shot down the one next to his victim.

“Good work, soldier,” he praised with a grin, reloading the rifle again.

“Soldier, what? Gaston, it’s me.”

Gaston turned to the man lying beside him and his blood froze in his veins. “LeFou— what are you doing?!”

“Fighting…? It’s the war, Gaston. I joined it to fight for our village and to keep an eye on you, and that’s what I’m doing.”

Gaston lied there as LeFou shot an enemy soldier with extreme precision. He should be proud but all he could feel was concern. “I… LeFou, do you know how dangerous this is? Fighting out here?”

“You didn’t seem to care about that,” he said, looking for bullets, “when you thought I was a random soldier, now, did you?”

“Wh… Because you’re _not_ a random soldier! You’re my friend!”

LeFou pulled the trigger and turned to Gaston. “And so are you. And my captain, too. I’m not going to let them lose their leader.”

Gaston blinked, speechless.

“Do you think I can’t fight? Is that it?”

“No, of course not.” He sighed and ran a hand over his face. “LeFou… We’ve lost about four men last battle. Some of our best. Good soldiers die, too.”

“Exactly. You’re a good soldier.”

“It’s not the same thing! I’m their _captain_ , you said it yourself. I’m _supposed_ to be here, fighting alongside my men. You’re, you’re not! You’re supposed to be away, supposed to be safe.” He put a hand to LeFou’s face and turned it to him. “I made you my aide so you’d be safe and close to me.”

“Well, I _am_ safe and close to you.”

“But you might not be soon! They might shoot you and…” Gaston’s breath got caught in his throat and he shut his eyes close tightly. “Just…”

“Gaston.”

He opened his eyes, now brimming with tears. “What?”

“Trust me. Okay?”

“I do, I trust you. I just want you safe, LeFou.”

LeFou couldn’t help but smile softly, warmly. “I am. I will be. Go fight with them.”

None of them said anything, simply exchanged looks, Gaston’s hand not moving away from LeFou’s cheek. He nodded finally and got up. He withdrew his sword from its sheath and glanced back at LeFou, who gave him a reassuring smile. Gaston felt ready to fight. He felt ready to win.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next time: gaston is an even bigger gay also it's smut so jic some of y'all aren't comfortable w it don't read the next chapter and just wait for a new one to be uploaded take care


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried to keep this in the m rating bc like....changing ratings for One (1) chapter is kinda :// and misleading idk anyway

The kiss was rough, nothing like the ones shared in sleepless nights or even during the war. They laid in Gaston’s messily made bed, clothes scattered on the floor. Gaston’s hands roamed over every little inch of LeFou’s soft skin as the kiss happened, getting greedier by the second, tongues lapping at each other and groans of pleasure being muffled.

It had started innocent enough. In the tavern, Gaston had been distant and LeFou had guessed, rightfully so, that he simply needed a good drink. LeFou had joined him and had ended up on his lap, Gaston’s arm around him and pulling him close. At home, Gaston had seemed stressed, drinking more. And LeFou had reasoned, rightfully so once more, that a massage would help. He had started slowly, on Gaston’s broad shoulders, and had ended as lazily, his hands then on Gaston’s crotch as he whispered reminders of his greatest achievements in the war and words of awe and worship. Gaston had moaned — a real, low, _loud_ moan — when LeFou had kissed the bulge in his breeches gingerly and had called him “great, big, incredible Captain Gaston”, all while looking up at him through heavy lidded eyes.

He now found himself with LeFou’s legs wrapped around his torso and lubricant coated fingers brushing against LeFou’s entrance.

There were no words exchanged between them. Gaston simply looked at him with sharp, dangerous eyes, and LeFou whined under his breath and nodded once gently. It didn’t take long until his fingers were replaced by his cock and LeFou was leaving marks on Gaston’s shoulders, short and irregular nails digging deeper and deeper into Gaston’s skin as he thrust. Gaston glanced at LeFou and groaned softly. He had his mouth opened, allowing every kind of sound to slip away, eyes closed tightly, eyebrows knitted together, head thrown back.

The room was silent, the only thing that filled it the whining from the bed and from LeFou. His moans and gasps, interrupted by the occasional call of Gaston’s name as if he were some kind of divine figure. He bit his lower lip, tears threatening to fall, and leaned his forehead on Gaston’s collarbone. Gaston kissed his neck, biting and sucking at it every now and then, making LeFou whine louder, gasp faster. Gaston moaned quietly when LeFou started to roll his hips, moans replaced by “ah”s and whimpers by half-finished calls of Gaston’s name.

Gaston’s hip stilled and he grabbed LeFou’s left wrist, leading it down to his crotch. Without a word he pumped for a while before LeFou picked the rhythm up, whining and melting into Gaston’s oddly gentle touch. It didn’t last, Gaston getting back to fucking him roughly, groaning occasionally, one hand pulling at the pillow LeFou’s head rested on. LeFou’s free hand moved to the back of Gaston’s neck, finding his messy, mussed hair, and pulling lightly.

Gaston clenched his jaw. He eyed LeFou and his mouth fell open in a soft moan. He looked absolutely _gorgeous_. The sweat on his skin making it gleam, his mouth open to let out gasps and soft sounds of pleasure, a small, smeared stripe of blood on his bottom lip, the bright pink nearing red blush to his cheeks, his hair sticking to his face, the tears in his eyes when he opened them and looked over at Gaston. The love and admiration in them. Gaston put his face to LeFou’s shoulder and his pace quickened as he thought about the possibility of watching LeFou fall apart like this again. Maybe whenever he felt slightly more stressed, slightly less great, less Gaston, he could just bring LeFou to his bed, hold him down, fuck him senseless. LeFou would definitely enjoy it, with his “Gaston!”s and moans and whimpers.

He turned and kissed him. No tongue, no teeth, just their lips pressed tightly together, with a faint taste of saltiness and blood. LeFou let go of Gaston’s hair to rake his fingernails over his back and shoulders. He put his hands to Gaston’s face, and kissed him again and again, shaking. Gaston reasoned he had been satisfied. He kept his ruthless pace until he joined LeFou in his post-orgasm bliss with a growl. He let himself lie on top of his friend as LeFou kissed his shoulder gently, ran a hand through his hair. LeFou sighed contently and Gaston pulled out and moved to lie down next to him.

Just like before, none of them said a word. They exchanged looks and LeFou put his hands to Gaston’s neck slowly. When he didn’t withdraw, LeFou moved them to his face and kissed him again. It was fearful, and Gaston could feel how nervous LeFou was. So, he rolled back on top of him. LeFou looked up at him with endless devotion, and slowly put his hands to Gaston’s hips, never breaking eye contact. Gaston put a hand to LeFou’s cheek and kissed him, something sure of itself. He brushed his lips over LeFou’s cheeks, the stubble stinging. “You’re the best,” he whispered against the soft skin, and LeFou let out a breathless laugh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next time: Gaston Has Flashbacks And Ends Up Crying  
> alt. Angst!


	11. Chapter 11

It was four o'clock when it happened. He had been riding with LeFou by his side, making jokes, laughing at them, when a _bang_ echoed throughout the woods. Gaston flipped the side of his coat back and put his hand on his pistol, ready to fire. They had come back. He could hear the barbaric yells, the animalistic shouts in a language he could not understand. Letting go of his gun he moved to withdraw his crossbow from his back and load it swiftly.

“Gaston?”

“They're back.” He glanced at LeFou and frowned when he found him perfectly calm besides the worry that twisted his features slightly. “What are you doing?! Do you want to die?! Get a weapon!”

“I— Gaston, I don't hear anything. Are you alright?”

“Wh—” Gaston blinked furiously and huffed. He scoffed. “Are you calling me mad?,” he asked, grip tightening around the pistol.

“What, no! Of course not, Gaston. I wouldn't dream of such. I just… it's been two years since the war, you're still recovering from the shock and—”

“ _Shock_?,” he laughed. “LeFou, I beat those cowards! I saved everyone, I didn't suffer any… shock.”

“You're imagining voices and sounds, how come you didn't suffer?!,” he asked, incredulous. “Gaston, I'm sorry for my… my, my tone,” he stammered, “but… you still wake up in the middle of the night screaming. I do too, it's okay. You just need to admit you hurt.”

Gaston opened his mouth to reply but words failed him when another shot resounded. “Are you telling me you didn't hear that?,” he hissed, hopping off his horse and walking away.

“Gaston!”

Gaston barely focused on his friend's calls and footsteps, too concentrated on finding out where the bastards were hiding. He felt a pull at his coat sleeve and turned around. Gaston was breathing hard, everything felt like it was closing in, the woods somehow getting smaller and smaller.

“Gaston, I want you to stop, okay?”

He could barely reply, tears welling in his eyes. His legs began to wobble and his vision to get distorted. He could see them, far away, faded. So faded. “They're right fucking there,” he growled, pointing in LeFou's opposite direction with his hand.

“There's no one there! Okay?!” He put his hand to Gaston’s face, making him look down at him. “You're safe. The war is over. They're gone. You killed them, you saved the village. You saved us.”

“I…” The tears spilled as he blinked, utterly confused. “What? I can hear them, LeFou, I'm not… I'm not insane.”

“I know. I know you aren't. Here, sit down,” he said, helping him down. LeFou helped Gaston lay his head on his chest, then kissed the top of his head and ran his hand through his hair the best he could without untying his hair. “You're okay, I promise. You trust me, yes?”

Gaston nodded. He didn't have it in him to speak. He was terrified. He wouldn't admit it but he was deathly afraid of whatever was happening. He closed his eyes and let the tears fall and LeFou wrap his arms around him to comfort him.

“We're safe,” he whispered into his hair, followed by a gentle kiss to his temple. “I promise those are just memories.”

“They feel too real.”

“I know.” LeFou's hand now ran up and down Gaston’s spine, soothing him. “But they aren't. They're just memories, nothing more. They can't hurt you.”

“And you?”

“They can't hurt me either.” Gaston could hear the smile in his voice. “I have them too sometimes and I'm alright.”

Gaston nodded. He felt like a child and silently thanked whatever superior being there was for the fact they were alone. He didn't know what he would have done if there were people nearby, witnessing their captain fall apart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sry this was short next one will be longer i Promise,


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> theres a lot of portuguese bc im a self absorbed mess what isnt translated by the Translator will be translated in the text

Gaston pulled the trigger, barely able to catch his breath. Swiftly stabbing and slashing some of the enemy soldiers that got too close and accurately shooting down others that were far away, he managed to keep himself on his feet. Then a sharp, sudden pain in his abdomen made him cry out, stumble. He tried to stand by gripping at the sword's blade, slashing his hand instead. He felt to the ground with a _thud_. But this was Gaston and Gaston didn't give up easily. So, he moved to get his pistol, his rifle too far beyond his reach.

The enemy stopped him, holding his wrist down, and put a knee to Gaston’s stomach. His eyes widened; he could feel his heart in his mouth. He let out a hopeless, breathless cry when the soldier stole his gun and pressed its barrel to Gaston’s forehead. He couldn't breathe, he couldn't think about anything but the fact he was about to die. So he closed his eyes, heart hammering in his ears, and swallowed, ready for his fate.

A gunshot, fast and quick and _loud_.

Gaston held his breath, his eyes squeezed shut, tears wetting his cheeks.

He felt a soft hand in his arm.

Marie. It had to be her. She was an angel, leading him to salvation, to Heaven.

“Gaston!”

That was not Marie at all, it was… “LeFou?,” he breathed. Had he died too? Oh, Christ let it not be true.

“Gaston, it's okay. I killed him.”

He opened his eyes, looked up at LeFou — who did look like an angel, soft and warm and gentle and loving — and let out a breath. “LeFou,” he repeated.

He nodded. “Let's get you to the doctor's tent.”

“I… You saved my life.”

“Not if you don't come with me.”

Gaston found himself unable to move from the shock. “I can't.”

LeFou cursed under his breath.

He managed to lift Gaston up, one arm over LeFou's shoulder, and drag his feet through the mud and blood stained grass. Gaston didn't process half of what was happening, his mind still dazed from having a pistol pressed to his head. His heart was still racing, tears still fell down his cheeks. He felt himself lie down on a bed and his hand being held tightly.

“Ernest!”

“I'm coming!” The doctor swore when he found his captain, wounded and pale, lying down. “What happened?”

“Stabbed and his hand is slashed. He nearly got shot in the head,” LeFou explained, still holding Gaston’s hand. “I killed the soldier but Gaston is in shock.”

“Captain,” Ernest called.

Gaston blinked at him. His head felt stuffed, and everything seemed far away and unreachable.

“See?”

“He needs rest. I'll bind him and take care of his wounds but be sure he sleeps.”

“LeFou,” Gaston called, barely a whisper.

“Yes?,” he said, turning to him, voice full of hope and worry.

“Stay,” he asked.

LeFou nodded. “I will. I'll stay right by your side, Gaston.” And so he did as Ernest cleaned up the wound, disinfected it, and finally bound it.

“Don't force yourself,” he said before walking away.

 

The day after, Gaston was back to his tent, LeFou always by his side.

“I must talk to them,” he said, getting up.

LeFou frowned and got up as well. “Gaston, I don't think that's wise. You're still recovering from everything. Let me go to them with Louis.”

Gaston let out a laugh. “Are you joking?! They'll think I'm a coward!”

“You almost died!”

“Exactly!” Gaston wet his lips and put his hands to LeFou's shoulders. “If I go to them, if I speak to them after what happened, they'll respect me.”

“Gaston, Ernest said you couldn't force yourself…”

“I'm not forcing myself.” His hands were now on LeFou's cheeks, bringing him dangerously close. Gaston could smell the dirt and blood in him, mixed with some oil LeFou had put on that morning. It was intoxicating. He blinked away those thoughts and spoke, “I'm going to talk to them with Louis. You can come along.”

LeFou's eyes, soft and warm, met with Gaston’s. “I want you alright.”

“I will be.” He withdrew his hands and walked over to the table, putting his gun by his side — his now most precious possession. “As soon as I talk to those savages.”

“...Please don't call them savages to their faces; their language isn't so different from ours.”

Gaston laughed, a robust, truthful sound no one was lucky enough to witness besides LeFou. “I won't… Shall we?”

 

Pain jolted up his chest and over his stomach as he walked. Although bound, his wound was far deeper than he remembered. Still, despite that, he strode with confidence that of a captain, head high and eyes forth. LeFou followed him by his right side at a slightly nervous pace, hands fiddling with the fabric of his coat. And Louis walked by his left side, both composed and anxious altogether.

He requested to see their captain, trying to sound sure of himself despite the shakiness in his voice.

“ _E por que motivo_? And for what reason?"

“ _O Capitão Gaston deseja falar com ele_.” A pause. "Captain Gaston desires to speak to him."

The guards exchanged looks, both smirking. “ _É_ este,” he said, pointing at poor nervous LeFou, “ _o grande Capitão Gaston_?” Gaston didn't speak Portuguese or anything alike but he did understand the guard's mocking tone, and he didn’t like it one bit.

“ _Não. Esse é o seu aide-de-camp_... No. That is his  _aide-de-camp_."

“ _Fala-me português_. Portuguese!"

Louis stammered. “Huh, _o seu ajudante no_ _campo_. His, huh, helper in the battlefield.  _Acho_. I suppose."

“Hm. _Está bem_. _Acompanhem-me_.” He stared down at them. "Alright, follow me."

The trio followed the guard, Gaston sneering at the one that stayed behind. He sniffed the air. “These people stink of wine and tobacco,” he whispered to LeFou, who drew closer as soldiers gave them nasty looks. The guard stopped by a great tent and the three of them followed suit. “Is this your captain's tent?”

“ _Ele pergunta se esta é a tenda do vosso capitão_.”

The guard nodded. “ _Senhor capitão_." My captain.

“ _Quem me quer_? Who is it?"

“ _Estão aqui três homens_. There are three men _. Um deles diz ser o grande Capitão Gaston_. One of them claims to be the great Captain Gaston."

Laughter echoed from the tent. “ _Manda-os entrar_. Send them in."

The guard nodded towards the tent and they entered.

“Monsieur Gaston, I believe that's how you, huh, say it,” the captain greeted with an accent, a smug grin on his lips.

Gaston didn't like it at all. “ _Captain_ Gaston, actually.”

“Está aqui p’ra se render?,” he laughed.

“He asked if you were here to surrender,” Louis translated.

Gaston took in a breath. “No.” He sat down and smiled tightly at the enemy captain. “I've lost half of my men,” he lied, “and I'm going to need about a week for backup.”

Louis translated it for the captain.

“Concordo com a proposta. Já somos dois, meu capitão. Os meus homens precisam de pelo menos duas semanas de descanso e de espera por mantimentos.”

“He agrees. His men need about two weeks of rest and waiting for provisions.”

Gaston nodded and got up to his feet, pain flashing over his face for half a second. He put his hand to his wounded side instinctively but quickly masked it by stretching it out for a handshake.

“Só uma coisinha, Capitão Gaston,” he called. Gaston turned around to face the man. “Next time,” he said, still with his accent, “don't lie to me. You're the one who needs rest. There's no shame in being wounded by the enemy. After all, we, Portuguese, are very good at battle.”

Gaston smiled, something weak that didn't reach his eyes by far. He turned to Louis before leaving. “Tell him that may be so, but we, French, are very good at war.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> É este o grande Capitão Gaston? - Is this great Captain Gaston?
> 
> Só uma coisinha, Capitão Gaston. - Just one more thing, Captain Gaston.


	13. Chapter 13

Gaston woke up with a splitting headache and an unfamiliar warmth by his side. The sun hurt his eyes and he sneered when it hit his face. He rubbed his eyes and sat up, pain jolting down his skull. He cursed under his breath as he ran a hand over his face and through his hair. Untied. Odd, he didn’t remember untying it. And why exactly was he sweaty in February? The frown of confusion on his face became one of realization. He eyed the source of warmth next to him, almost afraid. LeFou lay there sleeping, peaceful.

Gaston wet his lips and sat in bed, feet on the ground. He stared at his desk, hands to his mouth, and went over what little he remembered of the night before.

He had been distressed over how long the new soldiers were taking to arrive. The enemy was growing stronger by the second and Gaston’s men were doing all but that — some succumbed to their wounds, others immediately died in battle. Gaston didn’t really know which was worse. And to cope with said distress he had drunk. A _lot_. He could see now two empty whiskey bottles lying on the sandy floor, and a brandy one, nearly empty, standing on his desk. Gaston took in a breath and held it. He couldn’t remember what had happened next, his mind went completely blank. Besides LeFou showing up in his tent and trying to make him stop drinking. Though Gaston didn’t remember how that had ended, he doubted LeFou had gotten his way.

He let a breath and got up. No matter. That was past, and he had to focus on the present. And that meant putting on some clothes. He was midway through buttoning up his shirt when he heard his name being called from outside the tent. Gaston almost uttered the words “Come in” but stopped himself when he remembered who laid in his bed. So, he finished putting on his shirt and walked outside. “What is it?,” he asked, squinting due to the sunlight.

“We got a letter,” the soldier said. “It says more men should come in around two weeks.”

Gaston nodded, nose crinkling. “Alright. Tell everyone they have the day off today,” he announced, turning around.

“Yes, Captain.”

“And no one can come in my tent or make noise near it, tell them that too. I have a splitting headache,” he explained.

The soldier confirmed and paused before saying, “What about your aide, LeFou?”

Gaston stopped in the middle of the tent. He looked over at his bed — LeFou still slept, though less peacefully than before. He muffled a sigh. “What of him?”

“May he come in?”

“Yes, sure,” he replied, putting his fists to the table, balancing his weight. He groaned lowly after he heard muffled footsteps in his opposite direction. “I’m never drinking again.”

A snort. “I ought to note that down,” a sleepy, mumbled voice said.

“You’re awake,” Gaston said, dryly.

“And you’re hungover. ...Are you alright?”

He wet his lips in thought. Then he straightened himself and cleared his throat, adjusting the laces in his shirt. “LeFou, do you remember what happened last night?,” he asked without turning around, eyes fixed on the tent’s wall.

“I… Oh. Hum, I guess.” He laughed nervously.

“And what was it?”

“I…,” he repeated, stammering. “You, hum, bedded me…?”

Gaston took in a breath. He wasn’t angry. Not really. Not at LeFou at least. Gaston nodded and finally turned. “Put on some clothes.”

“What?”

“Just do as I say, yes?” He moved to sit down at the desk before chugging down all he had in his flask. His water flask, that is. The alcohol one was completely empty. He sighed as he watched LeFou shaking off dirt from his clothes and dressing up. He was bruised, bite marks filled every inch of his neck and Gaston cursed himself under his breath. “Are you really doing that?,” he asked as LeFou started to tie his hair back, leaving said bruises bare for everyone and anyone to see them.

“It’s part of the code,” he said, putting his arms down once he finished his work.

“Untie it,” he said. “The code isn’t worth anything today.”

“Oh. Alright,” LeFou agreed and did as told. “Is today a special day for some reason?” He gasped. “Is it Tom’s birthday?! Shit!”

“What? No. I just have a monstrous headache,” Gaston said with a sigh, letting himself slump down the chair a bit.

“That might be the alcohol you wouldn’t stop drinking yesterday,” LeFou joked, walking up to sit on the chair facing Gaston’s. “I tried to stop you.”

“I know, I remember that,” Gaston replied, putting his index and middle finger to his forehead and massaging.

“...Do you need a backrub?”

Gaston shrugged.

“Gaston, it’s…” LeFou trailed off and stammered, trying to find the right words. Gaston let out a breath through his nose and got up to put on his vest. He handed LeFou his ribbon once he sat back down. “Thank you,” he murmured. “Look, we had sex, it’s not a big—”

Gaston shushed him as soon as he mentioned sex. “Are you out of your mind?,” he hissed, urgent. “If anyone hears you, we’ll be _dead_.”

“No one will hear us. Besides, you enjoyed it as much as I did,” LeFou said with a scoff. “You weren’t even hard before we started to kiss.”

“I don’t want to hear it," Gaston interrupted through clenched teeth.

“Gaston, it’s okay. Alright?”

“O… Okay? It’s _okay_?” The effort to recover the lost memories from the night before almost made his headache worse. “If anyone from the army finds out… You’ll be hurt. They, they’ll _hang_ you! And I’ll lose my promotion, I’ll lose everything!” Gaston took a deep breath and straightened himself. “What happened last night won’t be discussed anymore. I don’t want to hear about it, I don’t want to _think_ about it… What happened was a mistake. I was drunk beyond belief, and you didn’t know better, and we committed a mistake.” He finally looked LeFou in the eye. He was looking at Gaston with a bitter, incredulous expression, eyes brimming with tears. Gaston eyed his mouth — his lips were slightly swollen, a bit bruised as well — and then his neck. He could still see some bruises, now partially covered by LeFou’s dark locks. “Also anyone could feel a bit more… excited under the influence of alcohol,” he argued further.

“Right,” he said, as dryly as Gaston had greeted him, and Gaston’s gaze flew from his neck to his eyes. “Because how could a man like you feel attracted to another man, let alone a man like _me_ , unless it’s because of alcohol?”

“LeFou, that’s not…”

“No, it’s okay.” He wiped the tears that threatened to spill and make him look even more pathetic. He took in a shaky breath, trying to pull himself together, and smiled at Gaston. “I did wonder why you’d be doing that in the first place. I suppose too much whiskey is my answer,” he said, resentful, kicking one of the empty bottles on the ground. LeFou got up after another deep breath; Gaston noticed how the corner of his right eye glistened with a smeared tear when he turned to walk away. “I hope you feel better soon, _Captain_.”

The formal addressing felt like a punch to the gut for Gaston and he took in a breath so he wouldn't break down and split the table in half.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im so sorry this took me 1000 years to update i started working on the next chapter but that turned into Something Else (still gna get uploaded lmao but)

There was noise everywhere, calls of names (“Sophie!” “Jean! Jean, here!”), and shouts of “Hurry up!” and “Hide! Here, here!”. Gaston's head was reeling. He didn't know what to focus on, if the shouting or the gunshots. Someone pulled at his sleeve. LeFou.

“We have to hide; what are you doing?”

Gaston stared at him. He looked like a complete wreck, hair tangled and falling off his ponytail, sweat dripping off his chin, eyes wide. “LeFou?”

“Yes! We have to move!”

Gaston blinked before screwing his eyes shut. He shook his head. “Fuck,” he whispered. He opened his eyes and grabbed LeFou by the shoulders, pulling him close. LeFou swooned a little. “Get yourself to the stables and wait for me there.”

He nodded and ran.

“Everyone!,” he called out, voice resonating, louder than everyone. The noise stopped and everyone looked to him. “Get the women and children to the stables! The elderly too!”

“What then?”

“They'll ride the horses out into the woods, to safety! My mother will lead them,” he said, looking over at her. She nodded and Gaston thanked God under his breath. “Every man will stay here with me and _fight_!”

“You 'eard him!,” someone called out.

The villagers started moving and Gaston went to his mother. “Maman, I'm sorry I didn't…”

“It's alright,” she said with a soft smile, putting her hand to his cheek.

“You'll… you'll lead them to where Papa rested during his hunting trips, alright?”

“Yes, yes.” She kissed him on the forehead. “Good luck.”

“Thank you. ...I love you.”

“I love you too. Go, you know where the weapons are.”

Gaston nodded. He glanced at her for a second, then pulled her in for a hug. “LeFou is at the stables,” he said, withdrawing. “Tell him to go with you, I want him safe.”

She nodded and Gaston finally walked away, towards the town's armory. The men followed him, most of them young and strong, though some stubborn old folk were part of the crowd as well. Gaston and some adult men began giving out weapons to everyone else — swords and guns. They were dusty and filled with spider webs, just like the armory itself. Villeneuve was a peaceful village, they had never known war or battle, and the only reason they had weapons was that the prince made it law so they could defend the village in a time such as this.

Gaston let out a breath and wiped a musket clean quickly, and loaded it just as fast. Then a quiver full of dusty arrows and a crossbow.

He rushed outside and nodded at the mob. And so they attacked. Gaston slashing and stabbing and shooting bullets and arrows with expert precision. And as he felt his blood boil, his heart race, he realized. He was _made_ for this. He was made for battle and absolute mayhem.

He grinned now as Villeneuve tumbled around him. As the enemy soldiers bled and died.

His grin vanished when he heard a familiar neigh. Gaston turned around and almost cried out.

“Duck!”

He did and in a matter of seconds he heard a cry of pain from behind him. “LeFou, what are you doing here?!”

“Fighting!”

Gaston stammered and took hold of his horse’s reins. “You need to leave, to go to safety.”

LeFou scoffed and jumped off Henri. “I’m not going anywhere,” he said. “Give me a gun.”

“I don’t have any.”

LeFou swore under his breath and looked around. Gaston watched as he left to steal an enemy’s gun. “Still loaded,” he said with a smile once he was near Gaston again.

Gaston stared at him, frowning. He held him back by his arm when LeFou began walking away. “I’m not letting you do this.”

“I didn’t ask for your permission,” he said, withdrawing his arm, looking Gaston dead in the eye. “You’re not my… owner or something. You’re just my friend.”

Gaston blinked at him. “I… I know. That’s why I want you with my mother. _Safe_.”

“I want you safe, too.”

There was a moment of silence between both men and Gaston almost broke down. He wanted to grab LeFou by the shoulders, to tell him he cared for him like he cared for no other, that he couldn’t lose him like he had lost everyone else. Instead he stood frozen staring down at his friend.

A gunshot. Louder than all others.

LeFou’s frown being replaced with a pained expression, LeFou himself tumbling forward onto Gaston.

“LeFou, no. No, please.” He pushed him off slightly, enough to see the wound. LeFou whined and sobbed as Gaston leaned him against the horse and checked the wound. The blood quickly stained his shirt dark red.

“Gaston.”

He shushed him. “Alright, this is okay. We just, we just need to… to get back. You’ll be fine.” He nodded and lead LeFou’s hands to the wound. “Keep pressing, alright?”

LeFou nodded. “Gaston,” he called again, weak.

Another shush. “Be quiet. Don’t waste your strength.” He turned to the few men standing. “Retreat! Get yourselves some horses and follow me!”

 

Gaston lied LeFou down on a blanket near the doctor. “He was wounded; he's losing blood quickly. Please, help him,” he nearly pleaded, “whatever the cost might be.”

Ernest, the medic, looked down at an incredibly pale LeFou and then back to Gaston. He sighed and nodded. “I'll do my best.”

Gaston sighed in relief, hand still gripping LeFou’s, then turned around. “Tom, Dick!”

“Yes?,” Tom asked, turning to him.

“Go to the doctor’s office and bring everything you can.”

Both men nodded and ran to their horses. Stanley looked around, confused. “Hum, Gaston. Do you want to me do something?”

He nodded. “Search for wounded and bring them to me; we need to get them to Ernest so we won’t lose anyone.”

“Alright,” he said with a nod.

 

The wounded weren’t as many as Gaston had thought, maybe around just five. Still enough that Ernest sighed heavily and put his hands to his face in desperation. Dick and Tom arrived soon after, medical instruments in bags that were tied to the backs of their horses.

LeFou was the first to be patched up, due to how much Gaston insisted.

He held him close as he cried out and writhed in pain. “It’s okay,” he whispered, voice oddly soft and caring. He brushed away strands of LeFou’s hair and wiped the cold sweat on his forehead. LeFou trembled, clinged to Gaston with all his strength, as he cried into the arm Gaston had wrapped around him. He muffled a scream; Ernest had cut too deep trying to get the bullet out.

“LeFou!,” a woman called out. “Where’s my son?! Have you— LeFou, _cariño_.”

“It’s your mother, hey. Hey, that’s your mother,” Gaston told him. LeFou’s eyes were still tightly screwed shut.

She pressed a kiss to his forehead. “Everything is going to be alright,” she said, soothing.

Gaston glanced at her and immediately thought of his own mother. He nearly jolted to his feet, were he not so dedicated to staying by LeFou’s side.

“Thank you, Gaston,” she said.

“Oh, it’s nothing your son wouldn’t do for me.”

LeFou whimpered, followed by a sigh. Ernest had finished and was now wrapping some fabric around LeFou’s stomach, covering and protecting the wound that begun to scar. LeFou turned around and wrapped his arms around Gaston, hugging him tight, still crying but now onto his chest.

“Next, come on, we have to be quick!,” Ernest called.

“Gaston, thank you,” LeFou whispered, withdrawing and looking at him in the eye. He was a wreck, hair stuck to his face with sweat, cheeks wet with tears that still spilled, eyes puffy and red from crying. He sniffed and Gaston was at a loss of words.

He cared so deeply for this man, he thought, he wouldn't have known what to do if he hadn't survived. He gave LeFou a smile. “Now, old friend, you would have done the same.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay yes basically i headcanon lefou to be at least Half Non-French bc, whomstve names their child lefou, (which in french slang can mean The F-slur like, disney rly. hm. did that anyway!)  
> i speak like. 20% spanish tht's why there's only One Spanish Word im so sorry,


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so I'm guessing that after the marauders fucked villeneuve up and Gaston defeated them Portugal jst declared war or some shit bc how else would Gaston be a war hero so yes. here it Is......feat. Gaston's first manipulation lmao

Gaston was sat by the fireplace with LeFou by his side when one of the prince’s servant (everyone called him monsieur Jules for the lack of knowledge of his true name, something that utterly confused Gaston once he always thought they were speaking of his late grandfather) entered the tavern with urgency. The man lived in the castle, far away from Villeneuve, and came down to talk to the villagers whenever there was something of importance to say and the Prince didn’t want to come down from his mighty palace to speak to the common folk — that is, always.

“Monsieur Gaston, sir!”

He sat up in his chair, frowning. “What is it?”

“They, the, the Portuguese,” Jules spoke, catching his breath. “They have declared war on us.”

The tavern fell silent in shock. Gaston wet his lips and glanced at LeFou, then looked Jules in the eyes and nodded. “You want me to lead again.”

“Please, monsieur. Thanks to you this village was saved from the marauders’ bloodthirst in under a month. ...The prince says he’ll make you captain!,” he added with a tone of desperation to his voice.

Gaston gave him an involuntary smile, bigger than he ever intended. Captain Gaston _did_ have a nice ring to it. He cleared his throat and regained his composure. “I’ll do it.”

“What?,” LeFou breathed. “Gaston, you can’t.”

He knew exactly what LeFou was about to tell him. « _It’s not safe. You’ll get hurt._ » So he put his hand to his thigh, reassuring. He looked to his mother, who stood near the bar with a cup shaking in her hand, and gave her a reassuring smile.

“Oh, thank you! Thank you, so much! The prince will come here soon to have you promoted!”

Gaston grinned at LeFou, hoping he’d be happy with the upgrade. Gaston found him staring at him, tears welling in his eyes. His grin faded.

“Oh, and sir?”

A muscle in Gaston’s brow twisted slightly in worry. He turned to Jules. “Yes?”

“Will, huh, monsieur…?”

“LeFou,” he muttered, still looking at Gaston.

“Yes, yes,” the nervous old man confirmed. “Will he be your aide-de camp?”

“That’s for him to decide,” Gaston replied with a charming smile.

LeFou let out a breath. “Yes.”

“Oh, thank you, thank you,” Jules repeated.

He then left and the tavern remained silent, everyone's eyes on Gaston and his always present companion. Gaston leant back in his chair and kept rubbing LeFou's thigh, soothing him, who spoke when the crowd began talking amongst themselves, presumably about Gaston's decision and the possibility, no, the _certainty_ of war. “Gaston, this is war. This is _very_ different from just scaring off a handful of marauders.”

“I know. But if I don't defend these people, if I don't defend this village, LeFou, who will?”

“I, I don't know,” he stammered. “Maybe they'll send someone from Paris! Gaston, it's dangerous.” He put his hands to Gaston’s cheeks just like he did when they were children and Gaston was fooling around rather than paying any attention to him. “You'll hurt yourself,” he whispered, voice shaking. Gaston closed his eyes and took a breath.

“I'll be alright,” he said, looking LeFou in the eye. “Trust me.”

“Christ, you're as stubborn as a mule,” he murmured, withdrawing his hands. He wet his bottom lip and bit at it in thought as he looked around. “Okay, okay, fine,” he said turning back to Gaston. “Don't do it for me. Do it for your mother. She'll lose a _child_ , Gaston. _Again_.”

“She won't lose me, because I won't die!,” he hissed.

LeFou stared at him, incredulous.

“Do you trust me?,” he repeated.

LeFou stammered and then clenched his jaw, pain flashing over his features. Gaston’s heart sunk in his chest. He wanted to hold LeFou close to him, calm him, assure him everything would be alright in the end, that _he_ ’d be alright in the end. “More than that,” he said with a small voice.

Gaston blinked at him. He loved him. “LeFou.”

“What? What are you gonna say? That, that I can't be scared for you because you're Gaston, and Gaston doesn't…” He sniffed and wiped his tears away with his sleeve.

“Let's go outside, come,” Gaston said, standing. LeFou followed him to the back of the tavern; Gaston was sure no one would hear or see them there. His hand was on LeFou’s arm, careful, thumb rubbing small circles.

“Gaston, I’m not letting you do this.”

He let his hand move slowly up LeFou's arm, heart hammering in his chest because oh, Christ was what he was about to do dangerous and thoughtless and, above all, hurtful. He put those thoughts aside, focusing only on how LeFou was staring at him now with his lips parted and inviting. And Gaston kissed him. Something terrified — his lips were trembling, he was sure of it — and careless. But LeFou's hand was gripping at Gaston's shirt, bringing him close, and he was kissing him back. “Do you trust me?,” Gaston whispered, breath hitting LeFou's lips, wiping away the tears that spilled with his thumb.

“Yes,” LeFou said immediately, almost without thinking. "Yes, yes. I do."

When he opened his eyes Gaston felt sick. He'd done it. He’d manipulated his closest friend just so he could to war, just so he could be captain. He felt terrible. And he felt even more terrible so when LeFou kissed him again and he didn't stop him.

It's not like he didn't enjoy it anyway; his friend's lips were warm and soft, and Gaston could kiss them for days.


	16. Chapter 16

Gaston gripped his rifle tighter, closer to his chest, as he hid from two marauders. The enemy had only five more men left and Gaston was sure that it’d be the last night of battle.

“Onde é que está o caralho do teu capitão?!”

Gaston turned around at the sound of a rough foreign voice. He couldn't exactly understand the language but he recognized the crying that followed the angry question. He let out a breath when his fear was proven true. They had caught LeFou.

The marauder pulled his arm close to him, strangling LeFou further and making him choke and sob. “I don't understand! I don't know, I don't know what you're saying!”

“Onde é que ele está?! O teu capitão! Ca-pi-tão, filho da puta!”

“Cap- My, my captain? Where's my captain?”

“ _Oui_!,” the man said, mocking.

Gaston couldn't just sit and stare. He was sure they'd shoot LeFou dead once he told them where Captain Antoine was. He aimed to the man's head, making sure the bullet wouldn't as much as graze LeFou, and shot.

LeFou cried out when the man fell to his knees and then down to the ground, bleeding profoundly from his forehead.

“LeFou!,” Gaston called.

LeFou almost _flew_ to get to Gaston, and once near him hugged him with all his might. “I thought… I thought I was a goner, Christ.”

Gaston shushed him. He put down the musket, still close to him, and moved his hand to LeFou's head. “You're alright, you're safe.” Without thinking, he pressed a kiss to his forehead. LeFou was burning. Gaston frowned in concern. “Do you feel ill?”

LeFou fluttered his eyes closed and shook his head, hands moving absently to Gaston’s chest. He sighed, burying his face on the crook of Gaston's neck. “You're my hero,” he breathed.

Gaston took in a breath. The praise felt _incredible_ , unlike any other thing he had ever felt before in his life. Sure, he heard words of praise from LeFou all the time and sure, they were all very true. But “you're my hero” made Gaston feel invincible. Like… some sort of god.

“Gaston? Is it safe for us to be here?,” LeFou whispered, looking up at him and interrupting his train of thought.

Gaston grinned down at him. “Do you trust me?”

“Completely.”

“Good. Stay here with me, then.”

LeFou nodded, without even thinking of questioning Gaston. He had no reason to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes the ending is a ref to the fuckign MESS thats the mob song i lvoe lefou
> 
> anyway  
> “Onde é que está o caralho do teu capitão?!” - "Where's your fucking captain?!"  
> altho lowkey translated by lefou “Onde é que ele está?! O teu capitão! Ca-pi-tão, filho da puta!” - "Where is he?! Your captain! Cap-tain, son of a bitch!"  
> i feel like if they Rly tried they could understand pt bc its a romantic language like french and capitão and capitaine aren't rly that? far off?


	17. Chapter 17

Gaston sat down. He bit the skin at the tip of his thumb, some kind of habit he had to relieve stress. He could taste the blood. The same dark red, slowly turning to brown, blood that covered his face and clothes in splatters, that ran down his chest and bright red jacket, staining his breeches.

His hands were the reddest, blood dribbling between his fingers and down the back of his hand, dripping onto his trousers and the floor.

He could still feel her against his chest. His mother's corpse. Doctor Ernest had told him it was normal, something he was experiencing due to the shock and possible trauma of witnessing his mother die in front of his very eyes.

Gaston had cried. To be honest, he was still crying now; tears that silently rolled down his cheeks. He had cried worse before, punching and yelling and sobbing. But then he got to camp, and no one could know Captain Gaston was weak. Not that he was weak. He wasn't. He _wasn't._

He should have taken a bath, or at least change clothes, but he couldn't move, too busy shaking and holding back tears.

“Gaston?” It was LeFou, Gaston could tell by his voice. Soft and just a little raspy. “It’s me. Can I come in?”

Gaston looked at him. He was tugging at the opening of the tent, peaking in with his head only to make sure no one but him would look inside. Gaston nodded and rested his hands on his thighs.

“People are talking,” LeFou said, closing the tent as best as he could, and moved the chair in front of Gaston’s desk so he could sit by his side. “All good things that I heard. They call you brave.”

Gaston scoffed. “I’m anything but that.”

“Don’t say that,” LeFou told him, placing a hand on his arm.

“Why not? It’s true. I just… stood there and watched her die,” he said, tearing up. He sneered and hit the table with a closed fist, causing LeFou to jump and grip his shirt. “What kind of son am I?!”

“...I didn't do anything about my mother, either.”

“Because I didn't let you!,” Gaston said, looking at him. “Because I held you back!”

“And shock held _you_ back!”

“No! No, it didn't! I'm just… I'm a terrible son and I'm an even worse captain, and Corbin was right.” He was shaking. He watched as LeFou moved his hand down Gaston’s arm to rest on his clenched hand. “Perhaps… Perhaps I _am_ a monster. I've killed so many and regretted none of it. Besides, what else but a monster would let his mother die?”

“You didn’t let her die.”

Gaston took in a breath and sobbed, before putting a bloodied hand to his face, smearing the already gruesome sight.

“Gaston, do you trust me?”

And Gaston heard himself in those words. So he nodded, of course he trusted LeFou. He was his closest friend, he trusted him with his life. “Yes.”

“Then trust me when I tell you you are _not_ at fault,” he said, placing his hand to Gaston’s cheek, his other gripping Gaston's hand. “You're not a monster. You're nothing but a great captain, and you were a terrific son.”

“LeFou," he protested.

“Trust me,” he said with a smile and how could Gaston say no to those dimples.


	18. Chapter 18

The battlefield was up in smoke and the smell of it alongside of blood and sweat and dirt filled Gaston’s senses. He coughed and reloaded his rifle. Gaston acted on pure instinct. He was good, not that it came as surprise — he _was_ a terrific hunter, and killing soldiers wasn’t all that different from shooting down deer. Except, that is, for the fact soldiers shot back.

He fell to the ground, the wet and muddy dirt staining his coat and breeches. He gasped for air, the blood spreading across his shirt and sticking it to his abdomen. Gaston’s left hand flew to the wound and his right grasped around at the floor, trying to find his fallen musket.

When his fingers wrapped around it, the soldier that had attacked him slashed his arm. Gaston yelled a hoarse cry and, fighting the pain, moved to put the musket between him and the soldier. The bayonet pierced the man's chest quickly at first and then slowly as blood began sprouting around it and trailing down it. He had cut his liver.

Gaston watched as the man turned an eerie shade of pale, blood springing at his mouth and falling in a thin thread, then in many drops as he coughed. Gaston winced and sneered; blood had fallen on his face.

It hadn't been Gaston's first kill, far from it. But it had been the one that stuck with him the most, for better or for worse. The look in that man's eyes was one that Gaston would not forget — the way the light in them faded away was completely different from the way it faded in an animal’s. Even after a decade, whenever Gaston would close his eyes when sober, those dead, emotionless eyes and pale face would be staring down at him. Making sure he wouldn't forget.

Gaston lied there, panting and bleeding out and losing his consciousness, staring at the now dead soldier that hung limp from the bayonet of his gun. He closed his eyes, still hyperventilating, and let whoever had grabbed his arm lead him to safety. Or death. Gaston wasn’t exactly sure of which was preferable at the moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry it was short next one will be Longer hopefully (also full of angst bc who doesnt like that)


	19. Chapter 19

Gaston turned around when a cannon went off, resounding over everything and everyone. LeFou instinctively pulled him closer, hands grasping for his coat. Gaston sneered and turned to LeFou. “Let me go.”

“What? No. No, no, Gaston,” he said, fighting Gaston as he tried to take his hands off his coat. Gaston hated how panicked LeFou sounded. “Gaston—”

“Let me go!,” he yelled.

LeFou did, staring up at him with utter worry and fear in his eyes. “Please, don’t go.”

“I have to,” he mumbled, walking away to get a hold of a musket. He threw one over to LeFou who caught it with precision, hands shaking. “Load it.”

“No. ...No, Gaston.” He shook his head and put away the gun. He grabbed Gaston’s coat again. “Please.”

“They’re attacking us, LeFou! I know you have a fucking thick skull but _come on_! It's not that hard to understand we'll all be killed if we don't fight back!”

LeFou stared at him in shock. “I’m sorry?”

Gaston stared back, jaw clenched, frozen in the middle of loading the rifle. “Nothing,” he mumbled, going back to it.

“No, what did you say? That I have a fucking thick skull?”

Gaston glanced at him and then back at the musket. “Look, I’m sorry, the stress—”

“The stress is the same for you and me both! And you don’t hear me calling you names! I deserve respect, Gaston! I’m your soldier and, above that, I’m your _friend_!”

Gaston took in a breath and nodded. “You’re right. I apologize.”

“Good.” He wet his lips. “Please, tell them to retrieve.”

Gaston stared at him. He uncocked the musket and walked away. “No.”

“Gaston, _please_.”

Gaston shrugged LeFou’s hand off when he tried to grip at him again. He opened his tent aggressively, the fabric flying and hitting LeFou in the face.

“Gaston.”

“Shut up,” he growled, fiercely searching for his dagger.

“Gaston, _stop_!,” he cried out, and Gaston did, hand on top of his desk. “Just… Stop, okay?!”

“I’m not retrieving.”

“It’s not safe. We’re outnumbered,” LeFou told him and Gaston swore he heard his voice tremble. He didn’t reply; didn’t move, didn’t breathe. “Gaston, are you listening to me?!”

He turned to him and let out a breath. LeFou was crying. Actually crying. And he seemed seconds away from absolutely breaking down.

“Say something, don’t just stare at me!,” he said, sobbing, with a push. Gaston barely moved. “Do you hate me?”

That finally pulled a word out of Gaston. One and a half, actually: “Wh— No.”

“Then why are you doing this?! Why aren’t, why aren’t you _listening to me_?!”

Gaston opened his mouth to reply but realized he couldn’t get “Because I’m too proud” out. “Because I’m their captain,” he said instead.

“Exactly!” LeFou was gripping at his coat again, desperately. “ _Please_. Please, please, please. Please, Gaston,” he begged. “We aren’t enough, we’re going to get killed! We’re already getting killed!”

Gaston watched as LeFou swallowed, choking back tears. He turned back to the desk and picked up his dagger. “I’m fighting,” he finally said, walking away.

“No,” he whimpered. “Gaston, please! I can’t lose you!”

He turned around and stared at LeFou, frowning. “What?”

“I lost everything! And, and _everyone_! I can’t lose you too, Gaston! Please!”

Gaston closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He was at fault: he had taken LeFou’s mother away from him, he had forced him to join him in war. He opened his eyes. It was enough, he couldn’t keep making LeFou hurt. He couldn’t keep doing that, he _couldn’t_. “Stay here,” he told him.

“What?,” he breathed. “No, don’t go, don’t leave me.”

“I’m not. I’m not leaving you. But…” Gaston stammered — his thoughts were everywhere. “Just stay here. Al-alright?,” he stuttered, shaking. Christ, who even was _he_ anymore?

LeFou blinked. He looked down at the floor and then back up at Gaston. “Promise me you won’t get hurt.”

“I can’t! I can’t, LeFou. But,” he started, grasping at LeFou’s shoulders, “I promise I’ll come back.”

LeFou nodded. And Gaston thought that if it weren’t for whatever force there was between them he would have kissed him. Soft and quick.

“Stay here.” And with that he ran to the battlefield.

Men from both armies lied dead, staining the dirt and grass with dark blood. Some of his helped bring back injured and replacing them in battle. Gaston stepped forward and took in a breath.

“Retrieve! Pull back!,” he shouted, rough voice echoing throughout the field. “ _Now_!”

The men did as told and withdrew immediately. Gaston stayed in place, watching the enemy, seeing if they followed suit. He smirked to himself when the enemy captain shouted Gaston’s order. He turned and walked back to his tent, finding LeFou sitting on his bed, still crying although quieter now. He looked over at him and gasped softly. “Gaston! You're, you're alright.”

Gaston smiled at him and LeFou got up to pull him close in a tight hug.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

Gaston let out a sigh and hugged him back, nearly crushing him. “You won’t lose me. I won’t allow it,” he said in a whisper against LeFou’s cheek. “I promise.”


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i listened to the dunkirk soundtrack while writing this to try and get Intense fcfg anyway here's gaston getting traumatized and crying bc gd told me to

Gaston struggled with the musket — it was heavier than the crossbow he used to — but eventually got around with firing it. His hands were shaking and his breathing was shallow and panicked. His mother was right. LeFou was right. This was no place for a sixteen-year-old. But then again, he thought as he reloaded the gun, if it was no place for someone as young as seventeen then it was lesser so for a fifteen-year-old. And with that thought came the overwhelming guilt of forcing LeFou to join him in battle.

A loud _bang_ , something close (too close) to him, interrupted his train of thought and made him jump. More terrified than ever, Gaston got up to his feet clumsily and walked backwards.

“What are you doing?!,” the captain called.

Gaston stood in place, shaking.

“I asked you a question, soldier!”

Christ, if Gaston were captain he would _never_ talk to his men like that. He still didn’t speak, his heart hammering in his chest. The captain walked up to him and grabbed him by his coat. Before he could say anything, a bullet pierced his skull.

Gaston watched in horror with wide eyes as his captain fell to the ground, head half blown to pieces. He could see the man’s skull cracked open, blood pooling under his head and over too, sticking his hair to his face. Gaston saw his brain pulsate under what little hair he had left there. He made the mistake of looking him in the eyes. You see, he returned the look. The same panicked, scared, terrified look Gaston had in his eyes. And then they turned a milky shade of their usual green.

Gaston put his hand to his mouth. His breathing was faster than before, his heart almost jumped off his ribcage, and his eyes were brimming with tears. Then, he let out a scream. And a scream as powerful as that of a child shook both sides, French and Portuguese alike.

“Gaston?”

His gaze turned from the gruesome sight at his feet to his friend in the ranks. The kill he just witnessed flashed before his eyes when he did so and he _ran_ to LeFou, pulling him up. “Are you hurt?”

He shook his head, confused. “No.”

Gaston nodded. “Alright. Okay.” He was hardly breathing — the air got to his lungs so fast it could barely leave. LeFou turned his head to look at the corpse but Gaston stopped him with a hand to his cheek. “Don’t look! Just, just stare at me, okay? Look at me, can you do that?”

LeFou nodded.

An older soldier, one of theirs, walked up to Gaston. “What happened, lad? What did you see?”

Gaston glanced at him. He didn’t have to bend his head over a lot luckily, for he was very tall for his age. “They killed Captain Antoine. Shot in the head,” he said, voice quivering.

“Why can’t I look?,” LeFou protested.

“Because you can’t! Please, just keep looking at me,” Gaston said, holding his head in place.

“Gaston, I’m not a kid!”

“You’re fifteen!”

“And you’re one year older than me! Just one! Why can’t I see what _you_ saw?!”

“Because I wish I hadn’t! ...I’m scared,” he confessed. LeFou became instantly worried. “I’m scared,” he repeated and his voice cracked and Gaston wanted to be home. He wanted to be home with his mother and LeFou by his side enjoying a warm meal that was all but the godawful stew they gave them. “I don’t want to lose you,” he whispered.

“Gaston.”

“I don’t! You’re my best friend.” Gaston could hear men behind him. The older soldier that had talked to him had probably told them all to retrieve from battle. “I don’t know what I’d do without you, LeFou.”

LeFou gave him a small smile and glanced around. Gaston frowned and opened his mouth to ask why he was doing that but before he could get any of those words out LeFou kissed him on the cheek quick. “I’m right here,” he said, taking Gaston’s hand in both of his and squeezing. “I promise. I won’t leave your side, Gaston.”

Gaston smiled at him. “And I won’t leave yours,” he said, still crying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so bill condon said gaston became captain at 17 so i'm like. assuming that he was 16 when the marauders attacked villeneuve and then 17 when portugal declared war  
> as to lefou's age i took lke. josh and luke's age gap but took a year out of it bc im not exactly Comfortable having a 14 & 16 yo in love thats jst....not good scoob so yeah they're like. about a year apart maybe jst a few months  
> also bc i had my bf do the astrology chart for batb chars and gaston is an aries and lefou is a libra and im Assuming gaston is older so thats that on that im so sorry these notes is almost as big as the fic


	21. Chapter 21

He fell to the ground with a pained shout, his head hitting the soil roughly. Still, he managed to stab the soldier back, making him fall to the dirt next to him.

Gaston gasped for air, trying to stay conscious and battling the pain that jolted up and down his arm. “LeFou!,” he yelled, so loudly his throat hurt. His friend kneeled next to him in no time.

“Jesus!” He put his hands to Gaston's face, shushing him. “It's okay, it's okay, it's okay. Gaston, stay with me, alright?”

Gaston was crying now, screaming every give seconds in pain. “It hurts. It hurts, LeFou.”

“I know. It's okay. You'll make it, I promise.”

“I don't… I don't want to die,” he managed to get out through the tightness in his chest.

“And you won't. You won't, I promise you.” He wiped the cold sweat on Gaston's brow and kissed it. “I'm here. Stay with me.”

Gaston nodded, strained. He whimpered and sobbed when LeFou put his hands to the wound in his arm. It was deep and it hurt like _hell_ , but not nearly as much as the look in LeFou’s face did. His eyes brimmed with tears and he was breathing quick, sweating. “If I die,” Gaston started, only to be interrupted by LeFou.

“You’re not going to die! You’re not!” He sounded so panicked, so hurt, so _scared_. “Please, just stay with me. Talk to me.”

“...You have pretty eyes. I used to,” he interrupted himself with a spasm, “I used to stare at them when we were children.”

LeFou didn’t speak. He simply stared at Gaston as tears finally begun to spill.

“Monsieur, is that the captain?!”

LeFou’s head jolted up and his eyes widened at something Gaston could not see. “Yes! Yes, it is! Please, help us, he’s losing blood quickly!”

Gaston was between life and death when they put him on that stretcher. He tried to focus on LeFou, or at least his words, or at least the background noises — the screams, the shots fired, the cannons going off. “LeFou,” he called, slurred.

“I’m right here, I’m right here,” he said, tightening his grip on Gaston’s wounds. “Stay with us.”

“Make it so I have a Jewish funeral,” he told him. LeFou shook his head. “Alright, at least, at least make it so I’m buried next to my family.”

“No! No, you’re not gonna die. We’re already by the tent, you’ll be okay, you’ll survive. Ernest!,” he called out.

“Put him on a bed!”

Gaston felt himself getting dizzy, his breath escaping his lips faster than he could control. He gripped at LeFou’s coat sleeve, putting all his strength into that motion. LeFou turned to him, and Gaston pulled him down slowly. LeFou understood the cue and bent over, face close to Gaston’s. Gaston smiled at him the most he could, his muscles twisting in pain, and put his other hand to LeFou’s cheek. His stubble stung against his fingers. “If I die,” he said with a strained voice, “I need you to, to know. I, um, I lo...”

“It’s okay. I understand.”

“Take him,” Ernest said and just like that the stretcher bearers took hold of LeFou.

“What? No! Let me stay! Gaston, tell them to let me stay!,” he asked as he struggled to get out of the men’s grip.

Gaston didn’t do anything. He closed his eyes and heard Ernest say something like “When he’s patched up you can come in” to LeFou, who sounded so much like him when he had seen Marie pale and skeletal and dying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yall: billy stop writing shit where gaston almost fucking dies or gets traumatized  
> me: well the next chapter is gna be lefou almost fucking die And getting traumatized so  
> yall: not like that never like that


	22. Chapter 22

It was the first week of war. Gaston had gone out with LeFou to Villeneuve, to check if everyone had evacuated to the nearest village.

Gaston closed the front door of a small cottage behind him. So far he hadn’t seen one person. “Did you find anyone?!,” he called out. LeFou didn’t answer. “LeFou?!” Silence was once again his reply. Gaston’s stomach turned; he didn’t like this one bit. So he turned around to look for his friend. Perhaps he was just inside some house and couldn’t hear him. Yes, that was it, that _had_ to be it. He called his friend again but his name died on his lips as he saw LeFou being dragged by a soldier. An enemy soldier that had the mouth of his gun pressed tightly against LeFou’s temple. The sixteen-year-old was as pale as a sheet and cried silently. “Let him go.”

“Are you, huh, the captain?,” the soldier asked, struggling a bit with the foreign language.

Gaston nodded, eyes fixed on a terrified LeFou and his hand moving to hold the handgun that sat by his thigh.

“You move and I shoot!,” the soldier said, shoving the gun against LeFou’s head. “I… I shoot him!”

Gaston took a deep breath. LeFou opened his eyes and looked at him with a small smile. “It’s alright, Gaston. You can kill him.”

“Puta de françuís. What does ‘kill’ mean?”

“It means I pull the trigger and you die,” Gaston explained, now pointing the gun at the soldier.

“Ó Filipe! Já o encontraste?!,” a disembodied voice called.

“Yep! Anda cá!” The soldier, Filipe, grinned at Gaston. “This is my friend, we’re going to…”

“Take you to our captain,” the other soldier finished. He was much more fluent than Filipe. “If you don’t put down that gun immediately, Filipe will be forced to shoot down your friend.”

Panic surged through Gaston’s body but he held it back. He couldn’t give in so easily. He _wouldn’t_ give in so easily. But he could not kill LeFou. He couldn’t just stand there with a gun pointed at Filipe’s face and watch that man shoot his best friend dead. His hands began to sweat and he wiped his free hand to his jacket. Gaston didn’t take his eyes off the man. “Tell him to drop his gun first and I’ll go with you.”

“And you don’t think I know you’ll kill him as soon as you have the chance?”

“Gaston, it’s okay,” LeFou struggled out.

“Shut up!” Gaston’s grip around the pistol tightened as LeFou jumped. “Hand us the gun, _Monsieur Capitaine_ , and he’ll be alright.”

Gaston cursed under his breath and closed his eyes. His lashes were wet. Of course they were, he thought, of course he was crying. He was but a kid and his livelihood best friend was being threatened right in front of him. “How do I know you won’t kill him?”

“You don’t.”

Gaston opened his eyes and looked at LeFou, who gave him a small smile. He was breathing fast, Gaston could tell. Definitely panicking. Who wouldn’t? He was being held at gunpoint and would die if Gaston tried to save him. With a clenched jaw, Gaston let his gun fall, hitting the cobblestone ground. “There. Don’t hurt him.”

“Gaston, no,” LeFou said, urgent, as Filipe threw him to the ground and moved to held Gaston’s arms behind his back. He handed the gun to his friend, who pressed it against Gaston’s temple.

“If you try anything, you’re dead.”

“Gaston!” He winced at how scared LeFou sounded. Then again when two loud shots resounded throughout Villeneuve.

Gaston, now wide-eyed, watched as the soldiers fell to the ground, blood pooling under their heads. He turned around and was met with a shaking, crying LeFou with a gun in his hands, smoke coming out of its barrel. LeFou got up and let the pistol fall.

“You’re lucky I,” he started but was interrupted by Gaston, who, overwhelmed by happiness and relief, now kissed him harshly, hands grasping his face. For his surprise, and Gaston’s as well, the kiss didn’t end right away. Gaston didn’t suddenly realize what he had done and stop everything. He kept kissing him until LeFou stopped swooning and kissed him back. That brought Gaston back to his senses. He pulled back, hands still on LeFou’s cheeks. It had been a moment of weakness, it was nothing big.

“That didn’t… It didn’t happen,” he said, taking a step back and lowering his trembling hands. “I was just, just happy to know you’re alright.”

LeFou stared at him with glossed over eyes. He blinked and wiped his tears to the sleeve of his jacket. “Yeah,” he breathed, nodding absentmindedly.

“Let’s head back to the camp before more of them come out,” Gaston told LeFou, putting a hand to his arm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Puta de françuís" - "Fucking french"; "Ó Filipe! Já o encontraste?!" - "Oh Filipe! Have you found him yet?!"; "Yep! Anda cá!" - "Yep! Come here!"
> 
> next will be Yet Again lefou almost dying but its okay bc he doesnt die and he & gaston are kinda gay in the end


	23. Chapter 23

The scream of pain that came from behind Gaston sounded too familiar. He turned his head around with wide eyes. “LeFou?!” His friend lied on the soil, hands to his stomach in pain. “LeFou!,” he called again, dropping his gun and running up to him. He took him in his arms and LeFou clung to his jacket. “What happened? Are you hurt?,” Gaston asked quickly.

LeFou nodded with a sob. “Shot.”

Gaston shook in panic. His eyes darted back and forth. “Someone! Help, please!,” he cried out. He was sobbing and holding LeFou close to him. “Please stay with me, LeFou.”

“It hurts.”

“I know, I know, but it'll be alright. You'll be alright. Someone!”

“Captain?!”

“Luc! Luc, get me someone,” he told the soldier that walked hurriedly to them. “Get me someone to take care of him.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Gaston?”

“I'm here,” he told LeFou, holding him closer. “Keep pressing on the, the wound, alright?”

LeFou nodded, his eyes slipping close.

“LeFou? LeFou! LeFou, no! Please, no, no, no.” He moved a hand to LeFou's face. “LeFou?” He slapped him lightly. And then a bit more harshly — not too much — when he didn't respond. This time LeFou opened his eyes slightly, gave him a small smile. “Don't die. Please.”

“Sir, the stretcher holders are here,” Luc told him.

Gaston swallowed and nodded. He got up and helped LeFou lie on the stretcher. “You'll be alright,” he told him. He began following the stretcher but Luc stopped him. “What are you doing?”

“Captain, you have to stay.”

“What?,” he breathed. “B-but my, my friend, LeFou, he's hurt! He needs me!”

“And so do your men, sir.”

“But he's my friend!” Why couldn't Luc _understand_? LeFou was his, his everything. “He's my friend,” he murmured.

“And he will be alright. Now, we must be strong and we must fight back. ...Do it for him. Do it for LeFou.”

Gaston knew what he was doing; trying to manipulate his feelings into fighting fuel. And yet he let it happen. “Alright.” He gave LeFou a last glance before walking back to the rows.

 

Gaston told them all to retrieve as soon as night fell. The battle hadn't been the worst but certainly not the best either. And the pit of worry in his stomach definitely wasn't helping. The first thing he did after turning back was putting his rifle away and going to his tent. There, he changed jackets and waistcoats — his previous ones were stained with blood —, and put away his hat and sword. He admired the latter for a bit, tracing the handle with his index finger. LeFou had helped him picked it, he liked the golden color. Gaston took in a breath and walked out of his tent.

Some soldiers got changed and walked to the tables around the small fireplace to be served dinner. Others helped the stretcher holders getting the injured to the doctor's tent. And a small group of soldiers — about a dozen — helped each other bringing the dead back. Gaston himself walked into the doctor's tent. The worry disappeared immediately and was replaced by a smile when he saw LeFou lying on a bed by the corner of the tent, talking to a nurse. He didn't manage to contain his happiness and ran. “LeFou!,” he greeted, still grinning.

LeFou gasped slightly and grinned back. “Gaston!”

Gaston pulled him in for a tight hug and smiled into the crook of LeFou's neck when he felt his soft arms hugging him back. “You're alright.”

“Yeah.”

Gaston laughed, tears spilling and getting LeFou's waistcoat wet. “Sorry,” he murmured, still grinning, and wiped his tears. “I'm so glad you're alive.”

“I'll give you two some space,” the nurse said, walking away.

LeFou shuffled to the side so Gaston could sit next to him on the bed. “How bad is it?”

LeFou shrugged and moved his waistcoat and shirt up, showing off a small round wound under his belly button. “The doctor said it'll scar fast. In three days I'm all good to fight again!”

Gaston nodded. “At least, you'll be safe,” he said, kissing his temple. “That's all I want for you.”

LeFou smiled at him widely and hugged him again.

“I was really worried.”

“I know,” LeFou replied. “But I'm alright,” he told him with a smile.

“...I don't want to lose you,” he murmured.

“Oh, Gaston.”

“I don't. You're my best friend.” Gaston let him go. “I should have never brought you into the war with me.”

“Hey, no self blame. I wanted to.”

Gaston nodded with a sniff. “You'll be more careful, right?”

“I will. And I want you to take care of yourself while I'm here,” LeFou told him. “Don’t get yourself killed or anything.”

“I won't. I'll be careful.”

“Promise?”

Gaston nodded. “I don't want to lose you _ever_.”

LeFou smiled and he scrunched his nose a little. “I don't want to lose you either. But it won't happen. Because I won't ever leave your side.”

“And I won't ever leave yours.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> y'all: stop almost killing them  
> me, holding a gun to both of them: sorry what


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> self harm tw bc gaston is a mess also if ur not coping thru fictional characters are u rly coping?? (u are and definitely better than i am but)

Gaston sat alone in his tent, staring down at his desk with a half empty bottle of red wine in his shaking hand. LeFou had been injured thanks to _him_ and his lack of attention. He was now in the doctor's tent but Gaston dared not visit him. Instead, he sat in the dark, taking the occasional gulp or two from his bottle.

He hated wine. In his opinion, beer and grog were infinitely better. But that's exactly why he drank a bottle of it now. Because he absolutely despised the taste. Just like he despised himself and his fucking non existent attention.

With a sneer, he drank more of the wine, gagging a bit after. Shaking his head, he put the bottle down, then moved to unfasten his sheath and let it drop, making a _clunk_ sound when it and the sword hit the soil.

Although not completely drunk, he already felt pretty slowed down. His face scrunched up as he tried to avoid tears that threatened to fall at the mere thought of LeFou.

He slammed his head down on the desk, bottle shaking and nearly falling from it. It seemed the “staring at nothing and getting drunk” part of his breakdown was over and the “breaking everything in the way” part begun.

In a bout of anger, he threw everything to the ground, ink spilling over papers that fell down as well as maps and a hunting dagger.

Gaston clasped a hand over his mouth to suppress his sobs, tears spilling over his fingers. He let out a cry, thankfully muffled by his hand, and let himself drop to the ground. There he completely broke down, crying and sobbing and trembling, hands pulling at his hair, slamming his head on the corner of table.

He stopped after a bit, his forehead jolting with pain. Gaston now rocked back and forth slowly, hands tangled in his curls, sobbing softly. He wiped his nose to his jacket sleeve, glancing to the floor. He swallowed deeply when he caught a glimpse of his hunting dagger, hand moving to his stomach. He felt his healing scar softly, eyes fixed on the knife. With another gulp, he picked it up.

Gaston bit his lip, the weapon shaking in his hands. He could see his reflection on the blade and his heart began racing.

“Fuck it,” he murmured. Who cared if he opened a scar? Who cared if he got himself hurt, even? He deserved it.

Gaston shrugged off his coat and undid his waistcoat. When he got to his shirt, he stopped, fingers trembling. He hesitated for a bit. He could hear his heart pounding in his ears as he looked down again at the dagger. With a shake of his head —  _Stop being so fucking_ weak — he undressed it.

He ran the tip of the dagger over a couple of scars, trying to decide which one to cut open. Noticing the one by his arm, he exhaled sharply. No one would see, it was perfect.

Gaston closed his eyes, wet his lips, and put the blade to the bottom of the scar. He pressed his lips together as it cut through the healing skin, a whimper managing to escape him.

He could already feel the blood hot on his skin, streaming down his arm slowly. Wheezing and clenching his teeth in pain, he cut deeper. Gaston whined, trying not to cry out as blood poured from the wound. He put a shaking hand to it and bowed his head.

He just wanted the war to be over and his friends to be alright and LeFou to be safe. They were already a year and a half into it, it couldn't last much longer. Or at least Gaston hoped, as he fell to the ground.

 

He woke up to someone helping him up, tossing his arm around them and dragging him.

“Come on, lad, don't do this to us.”

“Tom?”

“Yeah, it's me. Just hold on, I'm gettin’ you to the doctor's tent.”

Gaston shook his head. “LeFou, LeFou is there.”

“I know.”

“No. No, he can't… He can't see me, Tom—”

“Gaston, you're bleeding out and drunk. I'm definitely getting you to the tent, whether you like it or not.”

“LeFou. He'll… Get mad at me, please, Tom. Tom, don't.”

“He's asleep, don't worry about it. Ernest!”

“Well, now he's not,” Gaston murmured, his head falling. His hand gripped Tom's shoulder and he turned his head to empty his stomach.

“Oh, Christ's sake, Captain.”

“He drank a bottle of wine and cut himself up,” Tom told the doctor as Gaston wiped his mouth to his arm. His covered arm. He frowned and opened his eyes a bit more, realizing Tom must've put his jacket over him.

Ernest let out a sigh. “Get him on a bed.”

“Come on, Gaston,” Tom told him as he helped him walk down to the end of the tent.

Gaston fell on the bed with a thud, eyes heavy lidded with exhaustion and inebriation. Tom helped him take off his jacket and Gaston blinked down at his arm. He noticed Tom had already wrapped a piece of clothing around the wound. It had turned significantly dark red and stuck to Gaston’s skin with blood. “What… What were you doing there?”

“LeFou had woken up and he asked for you.”

Gaston exhaled through his nose in frustration. “Thank you.”

“Anything for you, lad.”

Gaston gave him a small smile and Tom nodded in return, taking his leave.

To Gaston’s surprise, Ernest didn’t comment on the absolute stupidity and recklessness of his captain. He simply unwrapped Tom’s amateur bandage and handed Gaston a bottle of whiskey. “I’m not encouraging your addiction here, it’s simply for anesthesia.”

Gaston frowned when he called it an addiction but a gulp from the drink helped him shrug it off. Before long he was drunk, barely paying any attention to the pain, too busy singing war songs to himself, his voice barely above a murmur. “Er-Ernest, look,” he finally spoke, slurring his words and raising his voice a bit too much. Ernest shushed him. “Don’t shhh me! Listen. Look. I appreciate all, all the work you’ve… done for us but that shit _hurts_. Do you really have to be so— _ow_! Fuck… So violent?”

“Do you really have to open up old scars, sir?”

Gaston stared at the man before letting his head fall on the pillow. “ _Touché_.”

“Gaston?”

His blood froze when he heard that familiar voice. “No…?” He was too drunk for his own good, he realized that now. He smiled at LeFou when he walked up to him, sleep in his eyes.

“What happened?”

“I… I fell…”

“There’s no good in lying,” Ernest scolded, binding Gaston’s arm.

“Thank you, Ernest,” he murmured before turning back to LeFou. “I hurt myself. Accidentally.”

LeFou sighed and sat down by his bed, hand to his cheek. Gaston could notice the small wound by his wrist and the blame came flooding back.

“I’m s… I’m sorry.”

LeFou frowned, confused. “Why?”

Gaston blinked at him. “What do you mean why? I hurt you. You almost… died because, because of me.”

LeFou laughed softly and it was Gaston’s turn to frown, eyebrow twitching slightly. “Oh, Gaston. I didn't die. I just got hurt because some fool decided to hurt me. It wasn’t your fault,” he assured, wiping Gaston’s dried tears. “I promise.”

Gaston let out a breath and closed his eyes, nodding. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he murmured through the lump in his throat.

“I know.”

Gaston sighed and looked at LeFou, who smiled at him. “You’ll be alright, yes?”

“Yeah. I promise.” He kissed Gaston on the cheek and then again on the forehead, the latter much quicker. “Now sleep, you need rest.”

Gaston nodded and smiled at him tiredly. His heart still hurt but his shoulders felt much lighter now. And again, silently, as he closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep, Gaston hoped the nightmare that was war would be over soon.


	25. Chapter 25

The war hadn't affected him like he thought it would have. He didn't cry, he didn't feel one bit of remorse about what had taken place, he wasn't even upset by the sound of a trigger or a bullet.

LeFou found it odd and, above all, worrying. He believed Gaston was suppressing it all. It wouldn't be the first time it happened, that's for sure. And it all had been so much — the loss of his mother, witnessing death first hand, and the near death experiences of both of them. He had talked to Père Robert about it. He told LeFou Gaston was just coping with all the trauma from war. But LeFou didn't like calling the fact Gaston was repressing all of it and nearly drinking himself to a stupor every night “coping”. And he definitely hated it when he asked Gaston if he was alright and only got a drunken smile in reply.

One day, though, that changed.

 

Gaston woke up in cold sweat, breathing fast. Another war nightmare. He should be used to them by now, he scolded himself.

He sat up, trying to calm his breathing down, just like he did whenever he woke up from one of those dreams. This time it was different, though. He didn't manage to relax and forget about it with some leftover liquor from the night before. On the contrary, he was shaking harder than earlier, barely breathing. All the memories he had repressed were coming back to him in some sort of flood.

Gaston couldn't feel his hands. He was sobbing by now and fell off the bed in a panic when the church's clock stroke eight o’clock, hands on his head for protection.

“Gaston, I bought you food!” he heard someone call from downstairs. Someone. He knew this voice. “Gaston?”

Gaston looked around quickly. He took the empty liquor bottle in hand, broke it in half on his bedside table and wielded it as some sort of dagger, pointing at the door. Its knob turned slowly and the door opened with a small creak.

“Gaston? It’s time you wake up, come on, now. I know you’re hungover but it’s getting out…”

Gaston stood in place, still shaking, using the bottle to defend himself.

“Hey. Hey, it’s me. It’s LeFou.”

Gaston dropped the bottle, shattering it completely. He jumped at the sound.

“What’s wrong?”

Gaston didn’t say anything. He couldn’t do much besides shaking and crying. LeFou let out a breath and swiped away the broken glass from the floor so he could kneel in front of his friend.

“It's okay. It's alright. Are you hurt?” Gaston didn't reply. “Gaston. You have to let me check you for wounds, okay? I'm worried and I want to make sure you haven't done anything.”

Gaston didn't move, just tried to calm down his breathing. He whimpered when LeFou touched his arm, his fingers brushing against a scar. Before he could stop it or even realize what was happening, the memory of getting it began playing on repeat. War. About 12 days in. A soldier shot him and he wasn't able to move his arm or to fight for two weeks.

“Gaston. Gaston, breathe. Hey, hey. Easy, easy. Deep breaths.”

He tried to do as LeFou told him, sobbing his way through breathing deeply.

“Let's get you dressed, alright? I can help if you want me to.”

Gaston blinked at him. He was still shaking and his heart still hammered in his chest with fear, but he managed to give a small, barely noticeable, nod.

LeFou smiled at him softly and Gaston began crying again. “Jesus, Gaston. What's wrong? You can tell me.”

Gaston shook his head almost violently and pulled his knees up to his chest, trying his best to protect himself.

“Please, breathe. Alright? I don't want you to lose conscience or anything like that.”

Gaston wasn't exactly hyperventilating by now but rather sobbing. LeFou moved a hand to his face but didn't touch him.

“May I?”

Gaston eyed his hand and nodded. LeFou shushed him as he kept on crying and wiped away the tears. Gaston felt some kind of rough texture on his nose and opened his eyes. A handkerchief. He took it with trembling, numb hands and blew his nose. LeFou smiled at him tentatively, then got up. Gaston immediately gripped at his breeches.

“I'm here, it's okay.” Gaston swallowed and didn't let him go. “I'm just going to get your shirt and everything.” Gaston nodded once and leaned back on the wall. The floor creaked under LeFou's boots. Gaston looked up once the creaking was right in front of him. He let LeFou put the shirt over his shoulders and past his arms. Gaston watched as he tied up his shirt only half way. “You like it that way, right?”

Gaston didn't reply but LeFou took it as a yes.

“...You have to get up to put your breeches on.”

Gaston sat on his bed and did as LeFou told, slowly pulling his suspenders over his shoulders. He started to begin to feel his fingers. His nose still felt numb, though, and he was still crying, except softer now.

LeFou sat next to him and smiled. “There you go.” He dressed Gaston with his red waistcoat and buttoned it up as much as he could — Gaston liked to have the frills of his shirt visible. “Do you want me to brush your hair back?” he asked, his hand on Gaston’s coarse curls, massaging the scalp.

Gaston looked at him with his eyes brimming with tears. Then nodded.

LeFou smiled at him once more and Gaston had to blink away tears. LeFou's hands were gentle and nimble, pulling and brushing at his hair, and in no time Gaston had it tied back somewhat messily. He didn't complain about it, it was endearing.

He winced when LeFou put his hands to his shoulders and began massaging.

“What's wrong? This used to calm you down. You know, like in the war… Oh. Is that what's happening?” he asked as he moved to look at Gaston, one hand still on his shoulder. “You're thinking about the war?”

Gaston opened his mouth but closed it soon after. He couldn't get any words out. So instead he just pulled LeFou into a hug and held him close. He sobbed onto his shoulder but LeFou didn't pull back.

“You're okay now. We're safe.” He kissed his shoulder and Gaston nodded before withdrawing. He and LeFou exchanged looks. Looks of “I know what you're going through” and of “I'm always here for you” and, above all, looks of “I won't ever leave”.

Gaston opened his mouth and, after a sigh, spoke in a whisper. “I’m sorry.”

LeFou frowned, blinking. “About what?”

Gaston shrugged and took in a breath, pulling LeFou into a hug again.

“Gaston, you didn’t do anything to me,” he reassured, soft hands in his hair. Gaston’s forehead rested against LeFou’s shoulder. “You never hurt me. Sure, you were… kind of crass and rude at times. And true, you did yell at me from time to time. But you never hurt me. I promise you that. You were a kid. We both were. You were captain at seventeen, that’s—”

“And you were _fifteen_!” Gaston snapped, nearly throwing LeFou off his lap. Instead, he left himself, walking to Gaston’s door. “You were… a, a _child_ . I was nearly an adult! And I dragged you like the stupid, selfish fuck that I am, to _war_! Fucking war, LeFou!”

“You didn’t make me do anything I didn’t wanna do. Gaston.”

“I’m so fucking…” He sobbed. “I didn’t mean to yell, fuck.”

“It’s okay.” LeFou sat by his side, Gaston sighing and letting himself fall back on the bed. He put his hand on top of Gaston’s and glanced at him. Gaston looked at him with _something_ in his eyes. “You never hurt me.”

“You could have died.” A pause, during which neither of them moved or made the slightest sounds. “You could have fucking _died_ and it’d be my fault,” Gaston added with a saddened smile. Regret. He was looking at LeFou with regret and guilt in his eyes.

“But I didn’t.”

“But you could have.”

“But I didn’t,” LeFou repeated, now holding Gaston’s hand. “Hypotheticals don’t matter, Gaston. I’m safe, you’re safe. The war is over… All we have left from it are our uniforms and scars. And a scar, like my mother used to say, is a sign of survival.” Gaston opened his mouth to reply but LeFou interrupted him. “I’m alive. You’re alive.”

“But you could have died!”

“And I didn’t! Gaston, who out of us both spent most of his time in the doctor’s tent? Hm? Who is the one with the most physical scars?”

Gaston’s reply came as a murmur, “Me.”

“If anyone could have died out there, it would be you. And you’re not dead. You’re alive and… in front of me… and I love… I love you,” he said quickly. “I know most of… of the things that happened in the war were products of stress and lack of women,” he joked, “but I love you. It’s… a bit crazy, yes, but then again my name _is_ LeFou.” He laughed and Gaston sat up.

“And it’s a lovely one at that,” he told him. LeFou chuckled and turned to him, smiling. “We’re safe.”

“Yeah. Us, _Le Duo_.”

Gaston nodded and frowned slightly. “Not… not all of the things that happened were ‘products of stress and lack of women’.”

LeFou’s smile widened. “Don’t play with my feelings, Monsieur LeGume. I’m not one of your maidens,” he joked, getting up.

Gaston stopped him, hand pulling at his sleeve. “No, no, you’re not. You’re smarter than them. Prettier, too.” He smirked when LeFou stammered, and got to his feet. His legs were still weak but not so much that he couldn’t stand.

“Well, yes. But, you’re, you’re drunk… Gaston, you’re drunk, right now.”

“I’m a bit tipsy at most,” he corrected, still smirking.

“You’re incredible,” LeFou said with a laugh. “Are you feeling better?”

“As it always happens when I talk to you, my dear friend.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have a feeling gaston would absolutely ignore what happened during his breakdowns once they were over he looks like the guy who just bottles everything up


	26. Chapter 26

Gaston let out a breath as his men and the enemy’s lined up for another battle. The rustling of the wheels of the cart in which the cannons were on was muffled by the dirt. There was shuffling from the ranks; the soldiers began loading their guns. Gaston moved to do the same, only to have a raindrop fall on top of his rifle. He frowned and squinted at it, then wiped it away with his sleeve. Then another. And another, and another, and it came to the point where his rifle was dripping and a strand of wet hair stuck to his forehead. “Shit.” He looked at the sky and squinted. Slightly grey clouds were beginning to cover up the sun from behind him. Gaston turned his head and yelled “Shit!” again when he saw a much bigger, nearly menacing, dark grey cloud approach them at a snail’s pace. Something soft touched his arm and he turned. Accepting his hat from LeFou, he put it on, then pulled the lapels of his coat closer together.

“Perhaps we should try and do this tomorrow,” LeFou suggested. He jumped when a thunder resounded, hand clinging to Gaston’s wet jacket.

Gaston shrugged it off crudely and growled. “This is _war_ , LeFou. It’s not a fucking game between schoolchildren,” he said with a sneer.

LeFou took a step back and frowned. “I know it’s not, you don’t have to talk to me like that.” He adjusted his hat brim, Gaston loading his gun the best he could without flooding the barrel.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled, moving his rifle up and aiming at a strong looking soldier. Another thunder and a yell from Gaston: “ _Fire_!” Smoke filled the air, as well as the sound of triggers being pulled, cannons being loaded and rain falling onto the dirt and the grass and the men. The strong soldier fell to his knees. With a smug smirk Gaston reloaded his gun and shot at the man by the enemy cannons.

“I’m going to your tent,” LeFou said, pulling at his sleeve once more.

Gaston didn’t reply, simply shot again.

“Gaston.”

“Just go!” he snapped. “Stop distracting me!”

LeFou frowned at him. He gave Gaston a glare and walked away, pulling his hat brim down to protect his eyes from the rain. A thunder rumbled as Gaston watched him leave. A pit in his stomach began to form and deepen but Gaston ignored it, turning back to battle. He couldn’t leave. They were _so close_ to winning the war, he couldn’t lose his focus and turn to LeFou instead.

A lightning bolt stroke dangerously close to them mid battle. Gaston jumped and stared at the spot among the trees, frowning, his lips pulled up in a sneer. “Fucker.” He turned back to the fighting after a shot was fired. “What are you doing?! Fight!” he yelled at his men that stared at the spot the lightning bolt had struck. “It’s fucking gone, focus on the battle!”

They did so, although reluctantly. Gaston didn’t exactly care. He had a war to win and he _was_ going to win it, and no thunder or rain would stop him.

At least he told himself so, until a bright flash of light appeared in front of them, sending a blast through the ground. There was shouting from both sides; terrifying, panicked shouting. Gaston was thrown back, his head slamming on the dirt turned mud. “Fuck,” he breathed, letting go of his rifle and putting his hands to his legs, feeling them. They were numb and Gaston could feel a slight electricity through his breeches.

“Gaston?!”

His head hurt like _Hell_. He could feel his brain pulse and he was sure he was at least bleeding a bit. As he sat up to check if he was correct, he noticed his men lying down, shaking. “Shit!”

“Gaston, hey.” LeFou put his hand to Gaston’s shoulder and Gaston grabbed his coat, getting up to his numb feet. “Are you hurt?”

Gaston shook his head, eyes fixed on the dead soldiers that lied in front of them. He sobbed. Then ran a hand through his hair. His hat had fallen. “Retrieve!” he finally ordered, to the men that were left.

Those got up instantly. Or at least most of them. Some stood by their friends’ side, shaking them, only to be shocked by the electricity that was still left in them.

“Lucas!” one screamed. “He’s still alive, someone get him to the doctor!”

Gaston felt the pit deepen and his stomach turn. LeFou’s gentle hands still touched him, making sure he wouldn’t fall, and helped him walk to the doctor’s tent. “Ernest,” LeFou called.

A head, nearly bald, popped up from the foot of a bed. “Yes?”

“Gaston slammed his head against the ground. I’m worried he might be hurt,” he explained, sitting Gaston down, who seemed to be catatonic.

“What happened?” Ernest asked as he wiped the mud from Gaston’s hair. “I heard a thunder not far away from here. Two in fact!”

“That’s just it, doctor. A thunder stroke right in front of us. I think most of our men might be dead or at least seriously injured.”

Ernest sighed, moving Gaston’s hair to examine the scalp. “It’s just a bruise, captain. Nothing to worry about.” He turned to LeFou. “Make sure he eats, give him some warm tea. And perhaps a bath, too.”

LeFou nodded. “Thank you, doctor.” He moved to help Gaston up again, arm sliding under Gaston’s. “Come on, now.”

Once in Gaston’s tent, LeFou prepared him a hot bath, warming up the water with a small, improvised fire. Gaston sat in his chair, still dressed in his soaking clothes. “I’m going to get you some soup really quickly. Gaston.”

He opened his mouth to reply but closed it quickly after. LeFou sighed and walked to the exit.

“I’ll be right back.”

Gaston eyed the tub. Steam came from it, rising in a visually pleasant way. He smiled softly and began undressing. He hissed when putting his feet into the water but, once inside, adjusted to it. He reached behind his head to untie his hair and tied the silken ribbon around his wrist.

Gaston put his hands to his knees and closed his eyes, letting himself relax to the sound of muffled rain and thunder. He opened his eyes when he smelled cabbages and potatoes. “No soup, I’m assuming.”

LeFou laughed softly as he closed the tent. “And you’d be correct.” He kneeled next to Gaston and handed him the bowl. “It’s stew. No rabbit, I made sure of it. It’s hot, too.”

Gaston nodded and sipped a bit. After a moment of silence, LeFou’s hand on his arm with a cloth, washing him, Gaston spoke. “I apologize.”

LeFou stopped and looked at him. Then he smiled. “Thank you.”

“I didn’t,” he swallowed the deer meat, “I didn’t mean to yell.” He sipped the stew, finishing it, and set down the bowl on the ground.

“I know. Just… try to actually listen to me for once, alright?” LeFou touched his nose playfully with his fingertip, smiling still.

“Yes, sir.”

“Fuck you,” he said with a laugh, pushing Gaston slightly. “I mean it. If you did, you wouldn’t have hurt yourself.”

Gaston sighed. “And no one would have died.”

Silence again, save for the rain. “That’s not true, Gaston. You can’t control things like death. You’re not the Lord. You’re a man. A _great_ man, but you’re not Him.”

Gaston looked at him. “I can prevent them from dying.”

“Like you said, ‘this is war’. You really can’t prevent anyone from dying,” LeFou told him, beginning to rub at his shoulder.

Gaston let out a breath. “Not even you?”

“No,” LeFou said after a pause, a smile tugging at his lips. “But you don’t have to worry about me. I’m barely in battle, anyway.”

Gaston nodded and pressed a kiss to LeFou’s forehead. He took in a sharp breath and sighed. He knew it was highly improbable of something happening to LeFou in the camp but improbable didn’t mean impossible, and the tiniest thought of something actually happening to his friend and him being unable to protect him made his heart sink. At least, he thought to himself as LeFou moved to scrub his back, the same little voice that whispered those worries to him told him the end of the war was near. So he began focusing on that, instead of the possibility of LeFou ever getting hurt.


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> none of them die! or nearly die! finally!  
> gaston tho Is an aggressive asshole who wont listen also hes Jealous.........only lasts like 5 secs but

His grip around the rifle tightened as he began realizing they were minutes, maybe seconds, of losing the battle. Without listening to LeFou’s voice of reason, Gaston began shooting at the enemy wildly, alternating between the rifle and his own personal handgun. His chest heaved as he ran out of bullets and powder. He threw both weapons to the ground and unsheathed his sword, then ran to the middle of the battlefield, shoving people as he made his way. Quickly and adeptly, he slashed throats like he would a deer, getting close enough to at least two soldiers to grab their jackets and force his sword’s blade into their chests.

Blood stained his shirt, jacket, and breeches, and a stripe of it landed across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose when he slit another soldier’s throat. Gaston breathed rapidly and heavily, eyes on the corpses at his feet. He looked up, still out of breath, to the captain, and flashed him a rather sinister grin as droplets of blood ran down his face smoothly.

Gaston held his gaze, his grin fading as he wet his lips, consequently licking away the blood that pooled at his cupid’s bow.

“Retirar!” the captain shouted, and Gaston sighed triumphantly and turned around, grinning once more. It didn’t last long, once LeFou was staring at him with his arms crossed from the ranks, as Gaston’s own men left to their tents.

“What?!” he yelled as he walked up to him. LeFou didn’t say anything until their shoes practically touched. “LeFou.”

“I’m mad,” he mumbled, looking down at his arms.

Gaston rolled his eyes and let out a sigh. He rubbed at his eyes with his index finger and thumb, then took a step back and sheathed his sword. “Why are you mad?”

“Because you don’t listen to me!” He looked up at Gaston, who clenched his jaw when he noticed the tears welling up in LeFou’s eyes. “I’m your best friend. And I’m your aide-de-camp. Aren’t I?”

Gaston let out a breath and nodded. “Yes.”

“Then, why do you do the _exact opposite_ when I tell you to do something?! You could have _died_!”

Gaston bit his tongue. “Because we’re at war, LeFou! We can’t be as selfish as to only think about us! We have to give our lives for this country.”

“Why don’t you let me fight, then? If, if we have to ‘give our lives for this country’.”

Gaston stared at him, hands clenched into fists. “Because… I’m your captain and—”

“Because you’re my captain,” LeFou said with a dry chuckle. “Just admit it, Gaston. ...You think I’m weak.”

“I don’t! I just… I worry about you. Alright?”

LeFou blinked at him. “...Okay,” he said softly. But the frown came back before long, replacing the expression of love. “I’m still upset about you not listening to me,” he said.

Gaston sighed and ran a hand over his face, accidentally smearing the blood that began to dry.

“Gaston, look. I believe in you. I know you’re a terrific captain. I know that you’re incredible at strategy and really smart.” Gaston tried not to preen at the praise; LeFou’s tone seemed too serious to be just that. “But I also know you’re too impulsive to listen to anything other than your instincts. I know if they say ‘shoot’, you’ll shoot without thinking twice. And… that’s dangerous.”

Gaston scoffed. “It’s not dangerous—”

“We’re talking about you shooting soldiers who can very well shoot back!”

“Stop interrupting me!” Gaston snapped. He took in a few deep breaths, trying to calm himself down, his hands trembling with anger. “I know what the _fuck_ I’m doing, LeFou. Alright?! I wasn’t made captain because there was no one else available. I was made captain because I’m a capable man who’s organized and was the most suitable for the job. Does that mean I’ll be in danger? Of course, it’s the fucking war! But you’re my friend, like you said! You’re supposed to support my decisions! _Especially_ , when they’re made for the greater good of our army!”

“I’m supposed to support your decisions?! Like the decision of fucking _killing yourself_ ?! ...Gaston, half of the shit you decide to do are decided on the spot! You see danger and you think ‘yeah, let’s throw myself into this thing’! Every time you go into battle I am _terrified_ it’s going to be the last time I see you alive! Because I know damn well that you’re going to get yourself killed some day! You’re gonna pull one of those stunts like run into the battlefield with only a fucking sword in your hand and you’re gonna get shot, and I’m going to have to live without you!” LeFou’s face was scrunched up and red. His eyebrows twitched in upsetness, tears staining his cheeks.

“You know, for someone who says he believes in me, you surely do think I’m going to die a lot.”

LeFou let out a frustrated, distressed sound, eerily sob-like. “Jesus, why is talking to you like talking to a brick wall!?”

Gaston clenched his jaw and hands, digging his nails into the skin of his palms. “The war is all I have, LeFou! I can’t fucking read and I’m an _idiot_ , the only thing I’m good at is strategy!”

“So, you’re putting yourself into life threatening situations?!”

“It’s better to die a hero to these people than to live as some… underappreciated hunter!”

“No! No, it’s not!”

“It is for _me_!” With that, he stormed off, boots stomping on the dirt and grass. He kicked his desk once he was inside his tent. Then punched it, hard. His breathing was quick and ragged, and his mind was racing. “Shit! Fuck!” He let his sheath fall to the floor and, in another bout of rage, kicked the desk again. His toe began to hurt. He let himself fall on his chair and sobbed. He slapped himself right after, leaving a stinging sensation in his cheek. “Get out!” he yelled at whoever dared to enter his tent.

“What the fuck did you say to LeFou?!” Tom.

Gaston let out a breath and sat up. “Are you seriously here to give me a slap on the wrist?”

“No! Gaston, what the shit is going in your head?! The poor kid is crying! You know I care about you and you’re like a brother to me, but… yelling at LeFou?!”

“I already know I’m a terrible person, Tom, I don’t need you to come in and tell me!”

“You’re not a terrible person. You made a mistake. Go apologize.” Gaston didn’t say anything, simply looked away. “What happened to your cheek?”

“Nothing.”

“Gaston,” Tom sighed, “how many times have I told you you can tell me things?”

“I don’t care, get out,” he said. Tears stung at his eyes and he felt himself near breakdown. “Tom, I’m serious.” He pointed at the opening of the tent with his hand. “Go. Leave.”

He scoffed and shook his head. “No. No, I’m not leaving. Last time I left you ended up in the doctor’s tent because you decided to stab yourself. I’m not going to go through that, Gaston. You’re my friend. Alright?”

“Tom, please,” he begged, blinking away tears. After staring at him for a while, Tom let out a breath and walked out. Gaston could still make the shape of his shadow by the tent, arms crossed and chest heaving with the occasional sigh.

Gaston broke down crying.

His sobs and wails got mixed with shouts of pure rage as he hit the desk, making the bottles and inker shake. He felt himself spiraling, his thoughts so loud he could swear his temples were pulsing.

He was the worst, he caused nothing but disgrace to those he loved, he was the one to blame for his family's deaths, it should have been him.

It should have been him in that bed, dying, becoming paler and weaker by the second. Not Marie.

“Gaston? Are you alright?” He replied with a sob and in no time felt Tom’s hand on his back, the other on his arm, helping him get up and walk to sit on the bed. “What’s wrong?”

Gaston wanted to reply. He did. But the sobs were faster than the words and before he could say anything he was crying harder than earlier. Tom sighed and wrapped an arm around him, his hand rubbing it softly for comfort. “I’m… I miss them. I miss Marie. And LeFou thinks, he thinks I’m a terrible person and he’s right.”

“Gaston, breathe.”

He tried but only managed to sob and gasp. “He’s right,” he repeated over and over and over, nodding.

Tom shushed him, trying to calm down the mess of a man that sat next to him. “It’s alright. You’re not a bad person.”

“I y, I yelled at him, and made him cry and—”

“You made a mistake, Gaston, that’s all. Good people make mistakes.” Gaston sniffed and tried to regulate his breathing. “You just need to calm down, then you can go to his tent and apologize.”

Gaston nodded, still sobbing but less so. He let out a hefty sigh and wiped his tears to his sleeve. “Is he alone?”

Tom withdrew his arm and shook his head. “He’s with Dick and Stanley.”

The turmoil inside Gaston stopped nearly immediately, his lips pulling into a sneer. “With who?”

“Dick and Stanley. Why?, is there anything wrong?”

“Fucking Stanley is wrong, you know how he fancies LeFou!”

Tom snorted a laugh as Gaston got to his feet and wiped his tears once more. “Next time I’ll mention that first.”

“You should,” Gaston said, missing his friend’s joking tone. Then he left for LeFou’s tent, boots heavy on the grass as the sun set behind the camp. He stopped by the opening of the tent and took a deep breath to make sure he wouldn’t either cry or yell at Stanley. “LeFou, may I?” he asked, fingers tugging at one of the sides of the opening.

“...Unless you’re here to yell at me, yes.”

Gaston bit the inside of his cheek and entered. He glanced in Stanley’s way, his shoulders dropping when he saw he stood far away from LeFou, then Dick’s, who gave him a small, barely noticeable nod, and finally, when he found the courage to do so, LeFou’s. They hold each other’s gaze and the other two men took it as them asking them to leave.

“Why are you here?” LeFou asked, looking down and rubbing his eyes to his coat sleeve.

“To apologize.”

LeFou glanced at him through the corner of his eye and hummed. “Why?”

“What do you mean, why?” Gaston asked, blinking in confusion. “I yelled at you and I hurt you. I fucked up.” Gaston held back a sigh when he noticed LeFou’s expression soften. “I’m… I’m sorry. I’m sorry, LeFou.”

“Sit.”

“I’m sorry?”

LeFou’s cheeks flared up and he stammered. “Please, sit down.”

Gaston did so, sitting close to LeFou. He looked at him, and his heart fluttered. LeFou was so gentle. “I’m sorry. I mean it.”

“Gaston.” And it was soft and sweet but firm, as if he was scolding Gaston but didn't have it in him to be genuinely harsh towards his friend. Gaston knew that’s what was happening. “I’m still mad. I… I forgive you but…”

Gaston nodded. “I understand. You have every right to be upset. After all, what I did was…” He shrugged, unable to find the proper word to describe it. “Terrible.”

They looked at each other again, their eyes then locked. While Gaston had a small debate with himself in his mind on whether or not he was supposed to kiss LeFou, LeFou himself spoke. “I don’t like fighting with you. Or being mad at you, or you being mad at me. I like you. You’re my best friend and I… just care a lot, a _lot_ about you.”

“Me too.”

LeFou gave him a small smile. Then, slowly, opened his arms to hug him, his chin resting on top of Gaston’s shoulder. Gaston hugged him back. After a while they both withdrew. “Promise me you’ll start listening to me more,” LeFou said, hand on Gaston’s arm, his thumb rubbing soft circles.

Gaston glanced at it before looking at LeFou and nodding. “And promise you’ll start trusting me. I know what I’m doing.”

LeFou let out a breath and nodded. “I know. You’re my captain, after all. But I do worry about you. I don’t… I don’t want to lose you,” he said, choking on his words a little.

Gaston sighed and kissed his cheek quick. “I don’t want to lose you either. We’ve been through too much for that to happen now.”

LeFou nodded once more. Gaston kissed him. It was soft and Gaston hoped deep down that LeFou knew it wasn’t so he’d shut up or anything. He hoped deep down that LeFou knew Gaston meant it.


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me, not even 10 days after i posted here: Did Ya Miss Me? Admit It You Missed Me!  
> anyway it's been less than two weeks into school and i already have 3 chapters ready including this one.....dont do what i do kids pay attention to class and get good grades!

Gaston lied on his back in bed, staring off into space, eyes on the ceiling. His bedsheet rested half on top of the mattress and half on the ground — Gaston had gotten irritated with how hot it made him and had kicked it off. His arm dangled off the mattress, his fingers loosely wrapped around the neck of a brandy bottle.

The war had started around a month ago and the pressure on him as captain was beyond anything he could have imagined. So, much like his mother had after his family lost their lives to illness, he drank himself to a stupor to cope with such; although she had a preference for red and green wine, and Gaston for beer and grog.

If the borderline alcoholism and devastating pressure weren’t enough, he also could barely fall asleep at night, unless, that is, he had his pistol under his pillow. And even then, it wasn’t certain he’d go to sleep.

Gaston sighed and took another gulp, choking on the brandy. He sat up to spit it out and cough and gasp for air, then let himself fall back on the bed. He closed his eyes, let out a slow breath and then let go of the bottle. Finally, he turned around, falling fast asleep.

 

The camp was _loud_ and Gaston suddenly found himself amongst disaster and blood and fire and smoke. “LeFou?!” he called. He ran around, his head turning earnestly as he looked for his aide-de-camp. “LeFou!” Christ, he could barely fucking breathe. “Tom! Tom!” Gaston called, reaching for his friend. “Tom, have you seen LeFou?”

Tom turned to look at him and Gaston let out a cry. His face was beaten to a bloody pulp, and Gaston had to swallow down the remains of dinner. That thing — which wasn’t Tom, in no way could it be Tom, Gaston _knew_ it wasn’t Tom — pointed at behind Gaston and, seizing the opportunity to leave that monstrosity behind, Gaston ran to wherever it was pointing at.

He stopped short, a whine leaving his lips unbidden. In front of him lied a body, short, chubby, with curly hair matted to his face, and blood pooling underneath its head. “Fuck,” he whispered, tears welling in his eyes. “LeFou?” Gaston’s voice was small, weak, as he kneeled besides the body and lied his head on his lap. A bullet had pierced his forehead, he could see the wound perfectly, the blood pouring out gently, trickling down to his faded, blank eyes. Gaston sobbed and pulled him close to his chest. “No,” he whimpered, tears wetting LeFou’s shirt. He cried, sobbed, _screamed_.

LeFou was dead. LeFou was fucking _dead_. And it was all his fault.

 

When he opened his eyes, LeFou was missing from his arms. Gaston gasped for air, in the darkness of whatever place he found himself in. He probably had passed out and they had put him in his tent, lied him down in his bed.

He cried out when he realized he had lost LeFou. Hands clasped to his mouth, eyes screwed shut, he sobbed and shook, overcome with grief and loss. Gaston felt like there was some sort of gap in his chest, which he then filled with the remaining brandy.

Said grief became denial, and so he headed out to LeFou’s tent, to check. He had to. He had to know if he had actually lost the most important person in his life. His hand stopped by the tent’s opening, his heart pounding in his chest and temples.He wet his lips and swallowed down his worry, peered inside. He let out a soft laugh when he saw LeFou sleeping, the pain and denial immediately vanishing and being replaced by a smile and tears of relief. With soft steps, he walked to him. Gaston brushed strand of hair off his face and sniffed. He was breathing gently, snoring softly too, his eyelids fluttering a little when Gaston put his hand to his cheek, finding it warm. He sniffed again, then took in a breath and pressed a kiss to the corner of LeFou’s eye. He wasn’t gone, he was right here, right under his fingertips and his lips, and that made Gaston happier than winning the war ever could. Another kiss and Gaston headed back to his tent, still smiling.


	29. Chapter 29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i promised itd be a sweet chapter so here! its a little gay ofc but its mostly just cheerful bc honestly this fic reeks of Angst  
> also happy halloween boys and ghouls and non binary fiends

Gaston grinned triumphantly as the Portuguese captain told his remaining men to retrieve, hatred and poison to his voice. He glanced over the battlefield — the amount of dead bodies belonging to the enemy was beyond quadruple than the ones that wore the French uniform. They had only lost two men, something nearly miraculous as the battle had been quite tight. His men didn’t need his order to stand up and were quick to celebrate, laughing and embracing each other.

“Go clean yourselves up!” Gaston ordered, his rough voice booming over the cheering. “We’ve earned ourselves a good meal and plenty of drinks at the tavern!” he announced, throwing a fist in the air.

The air was once more filled with sounds of joy and cheer, words of gratitude towards Gaston. Tom caught his wrist before he could let his hand down. “Three cheers for Captain Gaston!” he said, shaking his hand a little. “Hip-hip!”

The roar was loud and lively. “Hurrah!”

“Hip-hip!”

“Hurrah!”

Another round of it and Gaston was beaming and laughing so much his cheeks began to hurt. His grin didn’t fade, not when he walked to his tent to change from his dirty clothes to better presenting vestments, not when he walked into it. “LeFou!” he greeted, finding him at his desk.

LeFou laughed softly. “Gaston, you look happy.”

“I _am_!” he said, walking to the desk. “We only lost two men and the battle was incredibly long. They lost about twelve or more!” He began unbuttoning his waistcoat and then his shirt. He went to the water basin and sank the dry rag that hung from the border in it. “We’re all going to the tavern now,” he mentioned, brushing the rag under his armpits and then running it over his arms. He wet it once more and then washed his neck and face. “Do you want to come as well? I feel like you deserve it, too.” Gaston then washed his chest and put the rag away. Waiting for an answer, he looked over at LeFou, who was looking intently at him with parted lips and glazed over eyes. “LeFou, did you hear me?”

He looked up at Gaston’s face. “Huh?” His eyes widened and he blinked, closing his mouth, as if he had been suddenly awaken from some kind of dream. “Oh, yeah, yes. Of course, I’d love to.”

Gaston smiled. “Great!” He turned and shuffled around for a dry cloth and a clean shirt. “Do you still have your playing cards?” he asked as he put it on, followed by a bright red vest — his favorite.

“Mhm. Do you want me to take them?”

“Yes, if it wouldn’t be too much to ask.”

“Of course not, Gaston.”

Gaston turned to him and stood up straight. “How do I look?”

LeFou smiled, biting at his lip, as he put the deck of cards into his jacket pocket. “Great as always, my Captain.”

Gaston snorted a laugh and put on his scarlet leather jacket, waiting for LeFou to put on his jacket. He frowned when he began tying back his hair and stepped up to him, then tugged his index finger under the hair ribbon and pulled. Brushing LeFou’s soft curls with his fingers, he said “You look better with your hair down.” He could smell him from where he stood — crisp like grass touched by rain in spring, sweet like the taste of a freshly picked apple. He didn’t move from his stop for a while, hands to LeFou’s neck. He only broke out of his trance when LeFou sighed happily. Darting his tongue over his lips, Gaston withdrew his hands and took a step back. He put the ribbon on his desk, near an unlit candle. With a nasal sigh, he smacked a hand on LeFou’s shoulder in a pat, getting a huf from him in reply. “Well! Shall we?”

“If you want, Captain,” he joked, smiling up at him.

Gaston laughed and walked out with his hand to LeFou’s shoulder in a gentle grip.

 

The tavern was loud, filled with laughter and cheer from the soldiers that no sat at the table and on the stone stairs by the left side of the place. The band played a chipper tune and a tipsy Tom, with his mouth full of roasted deer, sang along with muffled words. Gaston sat by him, LeFou by his side. Dick and Stanley sat in front of them and were currently trying to arm wrestle while slightly drunk.

Gaston glanced around, looking for a waiter who could serve them. “Clothilde!” he shouted, waving his arm until the woman saw him, the same bitter expression glued to her face.

She sighed audibly when she got near him and LeFou. “What’s it going to be for Villeneuve’s Captain and his lapdog?”

“I believe it’s actually pronounce aide-de-camp,” Gaston said, carefully enunciating each syllable of the title, “but that’s alright. It was hard for me at first as well. But anyway, I will have one of your _delightful_ deer dishes — the one with the roasted potatoes you can bake so well —,” he said, trying hard to get in her good graces, “and LeFou…”

“Uh, I’ll have what… what he’s having, really.”

“Hm,” was Clothilde’s only reply. Gaston grinned at her and thanked her, to which she replied with a grumble.

“She is _not_ what these people should have as a waitress. Or… bartender, or whatever she’s supposed to be.” He took in a breath and sighed, then snapped his fingers in his friend’s directions. “Who wants to play cards?”

Stanley was the first to reply to it, full of excitement. “I do! What game? Blackjack?”

Gaston held back a laugh. That seemed to be the only gambling card game the kid knew. “Sure, Stan.”

“Don’t call me that, come on.”

“Alright, alright. Dick, are you in?”

“Sure. Tom?” When their friend didn’t reply, Dick repeated “Tom!” louder.

Tom blinked and shook his head before nodding drunkenly. “Of course!” He then took a bite from his charred pork loin to sober up.

LeFou placed the deck on the table and motioned a waitress to give them two beers. “Before we play,” he started, as he gave Stanley the cards so he could shuffle them, “let’s all agree not to bet ridiculous things. And this means no betting your house, your gun, your clothes, etcetera, etcetera.”

“You can just tell Gaston betting his own title is a foolish idea,” Dick said with a snorted laugh.

Gaston smirked in reply, the maid LeFou had called now setting their steins in front of them. He took a big gulp and let out a satisfied sigh. “Alright, no betting my title,” he said, accepting his cards from Stanley. He cleared his throat and frowned. His game was good. Not the best, but good.

“Here’s your food,” Clothilde said, interrupting his train of thought, and putting down the plates in front of Gaston and LeFou, followed by their cutlery. “That’ll be—”

“Forty five livres,” LeFou interrupted, and Gaston could tell he was starting to get annoyed by her constant irritable mood. “I know, Clothilde, I know.” He put the coins in her hand and dismissed her with a couple of waves from his hand. Gaston smiled; he liked when LeFou broke the “nicer than nice” persona. “Well, shall we?”

“Of course!”

The first two rounds were tight, Gaston always on top but Tom was fairly close to catching up. They were in the third round, and Gaston in his eighth beer, when he let out a triumphant laugh and slammed his cards on the table. “I win! Third time in a row, you maggots!”

“Alright, calm down,” LeFou soothed him, pulling him down by his arm. Gaston didn’t sit down, just turned to look at LeFou, squinting and frowning. His frown dropped when he began noticing the sly grin that spread across LeFou’s face. “Because _I_ won!” he shouted, jumping out of his seat and throwing his cards on top of Gaston’s, who looked at them with wide eyes. His gaze travelled from the cards to a cheering LeFou, back to the cards and finally setting on LeFou.

Alcohol had stolen all of Gaston’s inhibitions, and all he could do was either yell in anger and punch the table or grab LeFou’s face and kiss him hard. He picked the last one, followed by a pat on his shoulder and a murmured “Get me another drink”. He sat back down and gave a tight smile to his friends, all three of them staring in confusion at him; Tom less so than others. “What?”

Stanley opened his mouth to reply, only to get whacked in the arm by Dick. “But—”

Dick shushed him. “Nothing, Gaston,” he replied dismissively. “It’s _your_ life and _you_ get to decide who to kiss,” he continued, obviously talking more to Stanley than to Gaston himself.

Gaston laughed. “Alright. Thank you, LeFou,” he said, taking his now full stein in hand.

LeFou murmured something incoherent and let himself fall on the bench. Unblinking, he grabbed at a random stein — Dick’s — and took a swallow. And then another, and another, and it took Gaston putting his hand to his arm for him to stop. “Shit, sorry,” he murmured, handing Dick is now half empty cup. “Sorry.”

“It’s alright, don’t worry about it,” he said with a sympathetic smile.

LeFou began to pick up the money and put it all inside his wallet, leaving about a third of it on the table to bet in the next round. Gaston watched him, gnawing off the little meat that left in the deer’s bone, teeth scraping over it. LeFou was red to his cheeks and neck, his lips tugging into a small smile when they made eye contact. Gaston smirked at him, then ripped the last piece of meat hanging from the bone and threw it on his plate. Immediately after, he chugged down his beer, the drink trickling from the corner of his lips down over his jaw and neck. He slammed the cup on the table and wiped the beer with the back of his hand. Gaston rubbed his hands together before picking up the cards and shuffling them. He gave LeFou a smirk in reply to him staring with parted lips and wide eyes. “I hope I won’t distract you from your game,” Gaston said, as he handed LeFou his cards.

LeFou took in a breath, before blinking and shaking his head. He began ordering his cards. “Of course you won’t,” he finally replied.

Gaston snorted and snapped his fingers to order another beer. Another eight beers and four rounds and Gaston and everyone else was more alcohol than water. Gaston himself rested his head on top of his spread out arm. He licked away a hint of drool that escaped his lips and blinked at the money spread on the table. Stanley snored, head thrown back, and Dick was close to joining him. Tom, on the other hand, was as drunk as Gaston, which was beyond the usual but not passing out-drunk. LeFou was the most sober, and had also been the one who had drunk less. “I think… I think I won,” Gaston slurred, letting his eyes slip close.

“Mhm,” Tom murmured, pushing his coins to Gaston, who sat up and took the blurry money in his blurry hand.

He squinted and shook his head before turning to LeFou. “Do… do you think you can get me… another beer?”

“Gaston, you’re nearly losing your conscience; I am _not_ going to get you another drink.”

He pouted and put his hand to LeFou’s cheek. “ _Please_? You’re so… beautiful.”

“Gaston.”

“You are.” Before he could keep complimenting LeFou, though, he lost strength. His hand fell and he groaned. “Just… another.”

 

He woke up to someone pulling a sheet over his chest with soft, warm hands. “LeFou?”

The man nodded and smiled at him. Then shushed him, brushing his hair away from his face. “You need to sleep, you have a big battle tomorrow, Captain.”

Gaston smiled tiredly, drunkenly. “We’ll win again,” he murmured.


	30. Chapter 30

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> after ten years....i'm finally back.....with a short ass chapter,

Gaston took off his jacket with a grunt, throwing it on the filthy, muddy ground, and then ripped off his shirt sleeve to rudely wrap it around the bullet wound gaping in his arm, little by his elbow. The torn cloth quickly turned dark red and damp, sticking to his skin. He whined a little and hit the injury out of unhealthy habit.

Usually LeFou would be by his side, force him to leave the ranks and go to the doctor’s tent to take care of such a wound. But that day he had stayed working there instead and so Gaston had to take very quick, amateur care of his injuries. He wasn’t the best at it, but, truth be told, he could be a lot worse too. Sure, they ended up bleeding out too much and he ended up feeling too dizzy to fire a gun properly, but that usually took around an hour or so when it could very much take about twenty minutes (like it had had when Gaston had started taking care of his self-inflicted wounds, too worried about LeFou’s judgement).

Interrupting his train of thought and firing, a second bullet pierced his skin, this time by his left shoulder. Gaston fell to the ground with a pained, half-silent scream. He put his hand to his shoulder, his breathing heavy, and groaned Tom’s name, trying to get him near him. Luckily enough, his friend had heard him when he had cried out and was holding his head up in no time. “You alright?” he asked him, voice dripping worry and concern. Gaston replied with a snarl and wide eyes as if to say ‘Do I look like I’m alright?’. Tom understood what he meant and shrugged apologetically. He tried to stop the bleeding, as Gaston focused only on controlling his breathing and on not losing his senses from pain. “Shit, you’re bleedin’ out really fast, son,” Tom commented, parting Gaston’s dirty, bloodied fingers to be able to check the wound better.

He blinked furiously, trying to avoid tears and losing conscience, forcing himself not to black out completely as everything began to seem and sound more and more distant and even slightly distorted. Gaston took in a deep breath to speak. “Put… some kind of… of cloth,” he said, his speech slurred and breathy, “on it. And send… send stretch…” He stopped being able to articulate words, the pain too much for him to bare. He closed his eyes, his eyelids too heavy for him to keep his eyes open.

“Hey, hey, Gaston. Gaston, lad, don’t die on me. LeFou will kill me, come on.” Gaston scoffed as Tom put something on his wound. “The Captain is down!” were the last words Gaston made out before losing his senses.

When he woke up, he was lying in a hard, uncomfortable bed that made his back hurt as nearly as much as did his shoulder and arm. He opened his eyes slowly, grunting as the pained yells filled his ears like rushing water in the river by the camp. His palms were damp from the cold sweat and his face dripped of it, getting wayward streaks of hair matted to his cheeks. Everything within him burned and hurt, and Gaston could swear that was the time he had felt the most physical pain.

“Gaston! Get to him! Get to the Captain!” he heard a faint familiar voice order.

Soon enough three nurses stood by his bed, preparing the material for whatever they were about to do to him. He looked at it nervously, tasting the rusty, intoxicating blood in his mouth. He let out a whiny groan of protest when too many hands — five, to be exact — began touching him, pressing to his chest and arm.

“Don’t do that! Don’t do that!” the same voice called, quite desperately. Gaston looked away from the hands that withdrew from his skin to the man that spoke. He smiled faintly when he saw him, with blood covering hands, shirt and even faint white apron, sweaty, blushed face. “I can’t take care of him right now, so please, listen to me. Don’t touch him, at least not all of you at once and when you do, make sure he’s distracted. You must go gently.” LeFou then turned to him. He wiped his hands to the cloth that hung from the pocket in his apron and brushed hair strands away from Gaston’s pale face. “I have to go back to another soldier’s bed; he needs me very urgently. You’ll be alright without me, won’t you?”

Gaston nodded and hissed in pain immediately after, as one of the nurses seized the opportunity of distraction to wipe clean his wounds before they could become infected.

LeFou bit his lip before taking a deep breath and nodding. “Okay,” he whispered. He pressed his index and middle finger to his lips in a soft kiss, then put them to Gaston’s forehead. “I’ll be back when I’m done with him, I promise,” LeFou said, hand now cupping Gaston’s cheek.

He muffled a pained groan and smiled at LeFou the most he could without crying in pain. Hesitantly, his friend left. Gaston kept his gaze on the back of LeFou’s head, distracting himself from the pain one of the nurses made him go through as she disinfected his injuries  with some kind of alcohol (Gaston could tell from the strong smell).

“Before we withdraw the bullet and stitch your wounds,” the nurse by his right side said, getting Gaston’s attention, “do you mind drinking some of this?” She handed him a dark bottle, filled to little below the middle. Gaston took it in his hand and turned it around, the drink swirling with the motion. With a snarl, he put the finish of the bottle to his nose and smelled it, trying to figure out what kind of spirit it was. The nurse opened her mouth to answer his silent question but Gaston was faster, hitting her with the answer. “Old red wine,” he said. “I didn’t know you cleaned people’s wounds with this now,” he said in some kind of murmur.

“Oh, we don’t… actually. My colleague used brandy, and it is very common for us all to use it. More alcohol.”

Gaston hummed. “Do you mind if you give me that instead? Considering the severity of my injuries, I feel like it’d be better than just ordinary red wine,” he said, laying it on thick.

Although taken aback by the request, the nurse nodded. “Well, of—of course, Captain.” She cleared her throat and gestured at the second nurse by Gaston’s left that stitched his arm. She looked up, let out an “Ah” and handed her the bottle. The nurse then gave it to Gaston, who smiled faintly at her. “There you have it, sir.”

He thanked her and took in a deep breath before putting the bottle to his lips and swallowing as much brandy as he managed without choking. He gave it back to the nurse in little under two minutes, as his vision began to blur and his head to feel heavy. He closed his eyes and tried to distract himself from the burning pain that spread across his shoulder and arm, and the muffled yelling that sounded throughout the tent. When he was relaxed enough, and well half-asleep, soft lips pressed against his still damp forehead, making him smile tiredly and fondly.


	31. Chapter 31

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm so sorry it's been over a literal month there was jst a lot going on,  
> anyway i've always Wondered how gaston dealt w the war early on so!

It was bleak, for mid-August at least. It rained and the wind threatened to open his tent any time now with roars and whistles. There was barely any human noise outside, just the occasional drunken soldier either talking to himself or his equally drunk companion.

Gaston sat on his messily made bed (he had risen quickly that morning in the wrong belief that it would help him win the day’s battle) shaking out of fear and coldness, his hands gripping the hat they had given him the first day of war. His “Captain hat”. He choked back a sob or two as he thought about how eager he had been that day, how utterly excited he was to destroy his enemies and save Villeneuve and France, and finally go back to his home with a woman in each arm. As he thought about how  _ stupid _ he had been, how  _ blind _ .

War wasn’t pretty. War wasn’t fun. Deep down he did enjoy it, the mindless violence and the fact he was in charge of hundreds of people. It was different than sitting at home, watching the hours go by as his friends were at school, and it was different than coming home from playing with them only to find his mother on the couch sobbing her heart out and drinking. Both things he could not control in the slightest. And the violence allowed him to cope with all the emotional turmoil he had been in since thirteen — although it wasn't the best way to do so, it worked. However, he stopped enjoying being in charge as much when he realized said people had lives.

It happened when he had been helping his soldiers after a day in the battlefield. He charged himself with covering all the dead people from his side with pale white sheets that quickly turned a dark red as they glued onto the corpses with the blood. The blank eyes had stared at him as he did his task, and Gaston had barely been able to keep the little food he had ate before battle in his stomach. They had told him to go back but Gaston had refused to do so, telling them that he was captain and therefore had to be there for his soldiers.

Eventually he gave up. He could still see it now. The soldier he had been in charge of covering had barely anything to cover at all. Missing arm, eyes turned into some kind of mush that ran down the cheeks, and the head beaten to a bloody pulp. He had thrown up on the spot before losing consciousness little over five minutes after.

“May I?”

Gaston jumped and sobbed in shock. He took a deep breath and blinked, trying to settle back down. When he found himself grounded in reality once more, he spoke. “Yes.” He looked up and smiled tiredly at LeFou, who moved to sit by him.

“Do you feel alright? Tom kept asking about you at dinner,” he said.

Gaston took in a breath and shrugged. Then he reached behind his head and untied his hair. He only really did this around LeFou. When he had his hair down, he felt vulnerable almost. Gaston with his hair tied was confident, he was a leader. Gaston with his hair down was nothing. He was a cowardly, scared child.

LeFou knew what it was like; he himself was a cowardly, scared child.

“I think…” He sighed and ran his arm over his eyes, attempting to avoid any tears. “I think they were mistaken. I’m not captain material,” he said, looking down and scratching at his wrist.

“Gaston, don’t say that! You were the best option."

He scoffed. “Of course  _ you _ think that. And it's not like the prince had many options, to be quite frank. ...Face it, LeFou, I cannot lead these people,” he continued, looking LeFou in the eye, seeing his fear reflected in them.

“Says who? It’s only been a week or so.”

“LeFou, I vomited when I saw a dead body! I’m supposed to be this cold... intelligent person and I'm not! I'm anger prone, everybody says so. I have little to no self-control, as well. That's not what a captain should be."

“Gaston.”

“I’m… I can’t do this. ...I want my mother, that's all. And to be back in Villeneuve, starting my life as a hunter, spending time with you. I don’t want the… the yells and the blood and,” he sobbed and brushed his curls away from his eyes, “the death, and the  _ gross _ shit they serve us for meals.”

LeFou didn’t make a sound besides a small laugh at Gaston's last point, and simply moved to hold Gaston’s hand.

“Why did that…  _ brat prince _ even make me captain?”

LeFou hummed. “I think it’s because he saw you and was threatened by your good looks.”

Gaston laughed. “So he sent me to my certain death?”

“Jealousy makes you do crazy things!”

He laughed again, wiping his tears dry. “I suppose.”

“...I know you’re scared,” LeFou said. “I’m scared, too. After all, we’re children, really. Children have no place in the war, let alone as the captain of an army. But I believe in you. You’re a great leader.”

Gaston smiled at him.

“You’re going to win this war,” LeFou stated. It wasn’t to make Gaston smile, it wasn’t bolstering pure and simple. It was his belief. “I know it.”

Gaston nodded, then shook his head and sighed. “You shouldn’t have come.”

LeFou frowned, then pouted. “Why not?”

“You’re sixteen, LeFou.”

“And you’re seventeen; I’m not understanding.”

Gaston scoffed. “The point is, you’re young. Younger than me—”

“For about seven months!”

“LeFou.” He just pouted in reply once again. “You deserve more than this. God knows I’m going to come out a… broken, mess of a man, when this is all over. I don’t… I don’t want you hurt, LeFou. You’re my closest friend, I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

LeFou grinned at him and brought him close in a hug. “I don’t want you hurt either,” he said as he pressed his cheek to Gaston shoulder.

“I’ll be fine, don’t worry about me,” Gaston said, pulling LeFou off and holding his face in his hands. “I’m always fine. I’m Gaston,” he said, shrugging and giving him an apologetic smile.

LeFou shook his head. “That doesn’t mean you’re untouchable. You’re as mortal as I am. Perhaps not as sensitive but… you still have feelings. Don’t scoff at me! I’m right, and you know it.”

“You have no proof.”

“You were crying when I came in.”

Gaston raised his eyebrows in a defeated look. “Alright! But still. I’ll survive, LeFou,” he said, withdrawing his hands. “Like I said, I’m Gaston! Nothing kills Gaston.”

“Sure,” he said, before kissing him on the cheek. “Do you want to get dinner? I’m sure we’ll still get some hot soup, at least,” he said with a shrug.

Gaston nodded before tying his hair back in a slightly messy way. Curls fell on his face and over his ears and Gaston could very much tell that LeFou was staring at him with pink cheeks. He smiled and got up. “I thought we were going to get dinner.”

LeFou blinked and nodded. “Right! Yes, right. You first,  _ Captain _ .”

Gaston laughed and pinched his cheek playfully. “You’re the best.”


	32. Chapter 32

Rain fell heavily on top of Gaston's tent and thunder rumbled close to the camp. The wind threatened to yank open the tent’s door and the breeze that got inside made the candle light that lit Gaston's desk tremble. All of this only made his task of understanding what LeFou’s notes, consisting only of tally marks, meant even harder. With the wind blowing harder by the second, Gaston began to wonder if he would ever get to finish his task at all.

Just like the question had come in the wind, so did the answer: the candlelight vanished in mere seconds, blown by the cold winter breeze. Gaston sighed, too tired to be frustrated or even angry, and simply wrapped himself better in his bearskin rug, still shaking underneath it.

He glanced at the menorah he had set up by his bed, all the four candles that he had previously lit doused. With little thought, he let his head fall on the wooden desk with a _thud_ and embraced his position — trembling from the cold, face more likely than not being tinted by the ink in the notes, devastatingly hungry. Although, to be frank, the latter was more his doing than the winter’s.

When Gaston smelled fresh bread and what seemed to be deer stew, he blamed it on his nose, cursed it, actually, for making him believe such foods were really that close to him. And then they got closer, and closer, and _closer_ , and Gaston could feel the warmth of the stew close to his face right after a sudden gust of wind. Soon after followed even more warmth and, with the little will he had, he opened his eyes, just to meet his guardian angel.

LeFou.

LeFou was lighting his candles, organizing the papers Gaston was not resting his head on, making Gaston’s bed to make sure it wasn’t wet or anything of the like. Gaston felt like laughing. He did not know why; sure, he did feel relieved his mind wasn’t playing tricks, but he very seldom laughed of relief. “Why are you here?” he finally spoke, sitting up and facing his friend.

“It’s two o’clock and you aren’t asleep,” LeFou replied, pulling the chair in front of Gaston’s desk and sitting on it. With a quick gesture, he withdrew a metal spoon wrapped in a kerchief and set it on the table, next to the bowl of stew. “And besides,” he said, parting the bread in two with calloused hands, “you weren’t at supper; I was beginning to worried something had happened to the great Captain Gaston.” He smiled and handed Gaston his half of the bread.

Gaston didn’t do a thing. He scoffed and that was it.

“Eat it.”

“I don’t need to,” he replied, lying through his teeth.

“Sure you don’t, just like you don’t need to sleep, or drink water.”

“...Sarcasm suits you well,” he tried to joke in a futile attempt of getting LeFou to stop caring about his well being (he didn’t deserve it, anyway). When he didn’t reply, he tried another approach. “You’re not in bed either, you know.”

“Yes, I’m well aware.”

“Then why are you here, complaining about me not being asleep when you’re committing the same sin?”

LeFou sighed. “Because, Gaston, I worry about you.” Just like Gaston had used his silent to keep on talking, LeFou used Gaston’s to further convince him to take care of himself. “I know you haven’t been sleeping, don’t think I haven’t noticed how exhausted you are. You haven’t been to the actual battlefield in around a week, and last time you did you fainted from what I’m assuming was exhaustion.” He did get a reply from Gaston then, but it was only a scoff, so he continued. “And even before then I was worried about you and your constant reckless behavior. I’m… worried, I’m worried I’m going to come here someday, just to check on you, and you’ll be lying on… on a pool of your own blood.”

“And why do such things concern you?” he finally spoke, pretending to not know about the countless times he had covered himself in scars. (From his point of view, it gave him control on how he’d be hurt.)

“Because you’re my friend. And my captain,” LeFou insisted, pushing the bread closer to Gaston. “You don’t honestly think I don’t know where the scar from your stomach, and the one from your upper arm came from, do you? You don’t think I’m that foolish to think they’re from battle, do you?”

Gaston felt defeated. He shook his head and finally gave in, picking up the warm bread from his table and tearing a small piece from it. Pretending not to be starving, he ate it slowly. LeFou knew better, though, and immediately pushed the bowl of stew close to him, spoon already inside. Gaston didn’t have time to thank him, the pit in his stomach was such all he could think about was fill it. He’d eat anything at that point; if LeFou had handed him forbidden meats (rabbit, pork, anything), he would have devoured them all the same.

“Get some rest, will you?”

“You shouldn’t concern yourself with me,” Gaston said as he wiped the bowl clean with the mie of the bread.

“And you shouldn’t have come to war at seventeen. We all do things we shouldn’t to protect each other, Gaston. And I’m your aide-de-camp, I’m _supposed_ to concern myself with you.”

Gaston stopped chewing. He looked up at LeFou, who had grown so much in only a year (he could notice by the hardening of his hands, and the stubble beginning to make itself notice on his cheeks, and even his face looked less round) but hadn’t lost that gleam in his eyes, that warmth Gaston sought every time he glanced at him. He smiled and finished eating. He opened LeFou would never follow his steps and become as cynical as he was, he hoped he would never lose that warming glow in his eyes and replace it with whatever Gaston had in his. He hoped LeFou would continue to be that smug little boy he had met ages ago, and he hoped that the war wouldn’t take away from him more than it already had.


	33. Chapter 33

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in honor of tomorrow being my history test! which is either gna fuckin suck or go rly well!

Gaston woke up with cold, small raindrops falling on his eye and cheek. He rubbed his eyes and opened them, jumping when he noticed how water was falling on top of very important papers, damping them and turning the words into simple inkblots. He ran to them and tried his best to protect them from further harm, his feet now dirty with mud from a puddle on the ground.

As he finished stashing his papers inside various desk drawers, he began hearing it — the yelling. The screams in horror, the shouts coming from soldiers looking for their companions, the… the  _ shots. _ They had invaded their camp. Gaston didn't think, he didn't have the time to, he just acted. He  _ ran _ . Still with his sleepwear on, which became immediately soaked through as soon as he stepped outside, and with nothing to protect his feet or head whatsoever, he stepped into the pouring rain. It was terrifying; the rain was heavier than he would have ever guessed, the shots were coming from places that were impossible to find, everyone was crying and praying to their own, personal God.

Gaston himself was praying, and he had never considered himself to be much of a religious man. (Or a man, at all. He was but seventeen.) He found Tom amidst all the rain and people and his heart began beating again, as he ran to him and grabbed his arm. “Tom, Tom! Tom.” His friend looked at him, one arm over Dick's shoulders — he had been shot in the stomach. “Tom, where's LeFou?”

“I don't know, I'm sorry.”

With a ragged voice, Dick spoke, “I found him. He's unconscious, I, I believe.”

“Where? Where is he?”

“By his tent,” he replied before groaning in pain. Gaston turned his head to look for him in said direction.

“Easy, we'll look for someone to patch you up, you'll be alright.”

“Gaston,” Dick called and Gaston turned to him immediately. “Try and find Stanley, alright? I'd never forgive myself if that boy got hurt.”

Gaston nodded and started walking toward LeFou's tent, in a desperate search for his closest friend. He pushed through the wounded and their companions, and tripped over some dead bodies, laying out there on the grass with little to no ceremony. All while he yelled “LeFou!”, just in case his friend would hear him and find him. Just in case he wasn't unconscious. Just in case Dick hadn't been wrong and LeFou was actually dead. Just in case.

He found him by the tent, a couple of meters away, and ran to him, heart hammering in his chest and his eyes brimming with tears. He took him in his arms and tried to wake him, first by shaking him, then a very fearful slap to the face.

“LeFou, please. Please.” With that last pleading word, he kissed him — just in case it would work. It did in stories, after all.

But, then again, this wasn't a story. This was war.

“LeFou.”

He moved under his touch and Gaston breathed a sigh of relief. After groaning for a second, LeFou began gasping for air. Once his breathing was back to normal, he sat up an looked at Gaston. When he realized who it was, he practically jumped to hold him close, hands grasping at his nightshirt as he pressed light kisses to his shoulder.

“It's alright, I'm here.”

“I was so worried... I was so scared they were going to hurt you,” LeFou said, letting go of Gaston’s sleepwear and running his hands over his back and arm, full of care and warmth. “I'm so glad you're alive.”

“It's mutual.”

LeFou smiled and got up, helping Gaston by offering him his hand. Although perfectly well and unarmed, Gaston took his assistance.

“We need to—” A cannon interrupted him, making him duck instinctively. “Are they seriously cannoning us?!”

“Gaston.”

Gaston wiped his face in an useless attempt to try and be able to see better. He swore under his breath and turned to LeFou, gripping his arm. “Get Stanley and both of you find shelter somewhere. I'm going to try and end this.”

“But—”

“LeFou, just…! Do as I say. Alright?”

LeFou huffed at first in reply, his fingers flexing as he looked down at his bare feet. Eventually, he nodded and looked up at Gaston as he took a deep breath. “Alright.”

Gaston nodded thankfully and let go of his arm.

LeFou stopped him halfway with a cried out, “Be safe!”

Gaston simply yelled back a “I will!” and ran to his tent. He tried his best to be quick in getting clean and dry, wiping his whole body with a cloth he kept under his bed inside an empty metal bucket of water. He sheathed his sword, giving himself a cut that only made him hiss, and began loading his personal pistol. Before heading out, Gaston put on his hat and bright scarlet jacket, and took a breath. “Everyone!” he called, his voice booming through the the rain; the shots had stopped and the cannons seemed to be loading. No one seemed to listen to him, however, so he withdrew his gun and shot into the sky. “Get yourself ready and come join me at the enemy lines! Leave your wounded behind, we’ll take care of them when this battle has been fought!”

Although reluctantly, most left their companions and friends behind as they headed to their tents. Gaston growled and, now able to see thanks to the hat that protected his eyes from the pouring rain, aimed at a close enemy soldier and shot. Tom would soon join him. “I found LeFou. He’s hiding in this sort of… cave. He’s with Dick and Stanley, and I told the nurses and doctors to help the wounded there.”

Gaston nodded and sighed. “That was a good call. Thank you.”

“Anything for you, Cap’,” he replied with a grin. “Now…” Tom withdrew two pistols from his gun holsters. “Let’s give them what they came here for, yes?”

Gaston grinned and nodded. He looked back, finding a crowd starting to form. “Everyone, look for the cannons and fire at the soldiers behind them!” he ordered. Within minutes, the entire company was walking around the camp, or rather running, looking for the people responsible of their friends’ wounds and deaths. Gaston himself decided to stick by the frontline, close to where the battlefield stood.

He wasn’t sure if it had been pure luck or if his instincts were really  _ that _ good, but truth was he had found two cannoners in under an hour. The night had been spent like that: searching and killing and searching again, only to kill once more. Gaston didn’t stop, neither did his company nor the enemy. The clouds moved slowly and the sun’s first rays of light began to touch and light the camp and its soldiers, all of them exhausted, some even lying on the ground, not one of them wounded. Gaston, however, kept walking, kept searching, as his eyes barely kept themselves open.

He collapsed to the grass, against a slender tree, absolutely drained. He just hoped he had done well.


	34. Chapter 34

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gaston usually separates his war memories, or stories as he uses them now, into two sections: Glory and To Never Be Discussed. When he came back from battle to his safe village, he thought he had more stories based on Glory than the other section. He only found out he was wrong after two months of nightmares and spacing off during conversations because one of the people had mentioned one small thing that instantly reminded him of the war. “Duck” is his oddest one so far.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And Like Jesus, Josh Too Rose On The Second Month (what do u mean that's not how it goes??)  
> i'm so sorry this took two literal months but i was busy w school And writer's block regarding this fic so Rip In Pieces! but! march 30th the lord granted me not one, not two, but Three! three plots!  
> i hope this is okay

 

His heart pounded in his ribcage, his blood being pumped so quickly he could barely see properly or even stand. All he managed to do was shout out orders and occasionally shoot back at his enemies. He had been like this for days now, and people blamed it on how young he was — “Sixteen isn’t young,” Gaston would reply, rightfully angry. “I’m nearly an _adult_.” — but Gaston himself thought it was simply due to the adrenaline he was not yet used to. The adrenaline that made him freeze and tear up. The adrenaline that made his breathing quick and his hands sweat. The adrenaline that wasn’t adrenaline anymore than it was _fear_.

“Captain, what should we do?!” a soldier asked, tugging at Gaston’s breeches and leading him to reality rather than thought. “They’re nearly defeating us.”

Gaston clenched his jaw and looked around. Dozens of his men dead in the battlefield, lying in a river of blood and guts, both their own and their enemies’. “We fight back,” he said. “Better than we are now.”

The soldier nodded and reloaded his gun, only to be shot dead as he did so. Gaston jumped back and whimpered, eyes fixed on the gruesome sight of his man’s head; blown to pieces with brain matter leaking onto the grass as well as dark red blood. With a swallow and a swift wipe of his eyes, Gaston looked away. He wasn’t a child, he dared not cry the death of a soldier, and he dared less so vomit over it.

“Keep fighting!” he urged, once he found his voice once more. Gaston loaded his gun himself, careful to always take a peak forward to ensure he would not receive the same fate as his subordinate. His breathing hitched in his throat when he saw a man aim for him. What part of him, he could not tell but it was enough to rise to his feet and flee to his side, clumsily dropping his gun to the ground. He stared at it, unsure of what to do, of what weapon to use. _Sword, you_ idiot _!_ , he reminded himself rahter crudely. He withdrew it and turned to his men in the middle of the battlefield, the ones that had chosen to fight man to man instead of staying behind, then joined them, his legs pushing between soldiers. He quickly found himself in a tight sword fight with an older man, not that that was unusual, the metal clunking when his sword hit the enemy’s, himself yelping when the other man’s sword managed to actually slice part of him — his inner thigh in this case — and put him to the bloodied ground.

“Captains,” the man said in a quite strong accent, “should keep themselves behind their men. Not fight with them.”

“I fight with my men,” said Gaston, voice rough and weary, as he raised to his feet and perforated the man’s abdominal with his sharpened, blood stained blade, “because we are equal. There’s no such thing as me being better than them simply because they are common soldiers and I captain.”

The man laughed, his lips and teeth stained with red. “Young fool,” were his last words. Gaston withdrew his sword and watched him fall to the side and die, a hint of a sickly satisfied smile on his lips. It quickly faded. The cut in his thigh was beginning to burn. Gaston put his hand to it in an attempt to make it stop bleeding and, perhaps, to make it hurt less, but it was useless. He only managed to make the wound open further and burn deeper. His skin felt as if it were on fire and Gaston saw only but two options: to get himself to the doctor’s tent and heal it, but being seen as a coward by his peers and his enemies; or to wrap a cloth around it and keep on fighting, possibly leaving the injury to infect and endangering his life but being seen as a hero. With a clench of his jaw, Captain Gaston made his decision.

Carefully but quickly, he put one knee on the blood that surrounded the slain enemy’s body, and he ripped a great piece of his filthy shirt. Whimpering and barely breathing properly, he managed to wrap the cloth around his wound tightly and securing it. He rose to his feet and tried to regulate his breathing, tried to dismiss the white dots in his vision that came from the nearly unbearable pain. All in vain. The blood had soaked the cloth and pressed it closer to the cut, making it burn and hurt even more.

“Duck!” The warning had sounded louder than the bullets and shouts of agony. Unfortunately, it had reached Gaston too late, who didn't duck until a bullet trespassed his arm. Then again, it wasn't exactly ducking, rather falling to his knees in agonizing pain. His hand flew to his hurt arm as he curled into himself due to it. Forehead against the filthy, bloodied ground, he sobbed into it. His mind was too clouded due to the blinding aching, and so he was unable of any actual thought, any actual strategy of what to do next.

He was going to die.

He was going to die on his knees, sobbing like a pathetic coward.

The great Captain Gaston, dying kneeling, defeated.

Another sob erupted from his lips, both of pain and anger, anger at himself. Had he not been blinded by the need of being greater, a _hero_ , he'd be alive. Hurt, yes. But alive. Now, instead of being at the doctor's tent, he was curled into himself by the enemy's ranks, crying and sobbing, clenching his hand around his fresh wound. The one in his thigh burned, begging to be taken care of. By his side laid the man he had killed, his last words lingering in the air and attacking Gaston. _Young fool_. Christ, how right he was. Why did he think he was capable of fighting his enemy in man-to-man combat? He could barely even take care of his men, to command them, let alone fight the others. He was young, and he was a fool, and he just wished death had taken mercy on him so he would die. Gaston didn't ask for a merciful death, he didn't ask for a quick one either. Just one that was much less humiliating and hurtful than the one he was currently going through.

Gaston was barely conscious when he felt hands drag him away. His vision was too blurry, due to tears and pain, and his throat dry, so he couldn't even see his savior, let alone thank him. He choked out a sound, pathetic in nature, but it must had been close enough to “ _Thank you_ ”, because it earned him a gentle hand through his disheveled hair.

 

He still doesn't know who his mysterious savior was. Truthfully, he isn't sure he wants to.


	35. Chapter 35

The battle was tight, both sides fighting with all their might, none of them losing men as quickly as their enemy wished. Gaston clenched his jaw, and his hands around his sword.

_“Don’t use it, unless absolutely necessary. We don't want what happened two months ago to repeat itself.”_

LeFou's words echoed above him, haunting him almost, every time he thought of running into the battlefield and slicing his enemies in half. He had made a promise, Gaston reminded himself. And that word joined LeFou’s. He took in a breath. It left his lungs as smoke.

Gaston frowned and glanced at his fingers. Purple and cold at the touch, they were definitely freezing. The weather was growing colder and the battle was getting nowhere near the end. Taking in another breath, sharply this time, he withdrew his sword. The wound by his abdomen, right below his pectoral, began to burn. Gaston paid it no mind as he walked into the battlefield, heavy leather boots stepping on pools of blood. He adjusted his hat, sinking it onto his head, careful so it wouldn’t be low enough to obstruct his vision. Then he began fighting.

When Gaston fought, he found himself unable to focus on anything but. There was the metal sound of the blades when they hit each other, blocking each enemy’s blows, the intoxicating smell of blood that flooded his nostrils, the smell of sweat as well, both from him and his opponent. And then, his absolute favorite thing, the last breath that left his enemy’s lungs when Gaston defeated him, his sword piercing his chest. (Although sometimes Gaston chose the stomach.) There was also, of course, the sick grin on Gaston’s young face. The kid had gotten a liking for violence and chaos, that’s what he had been hearing from his superiors and underlings. Gaston let out a dry, barely audible laugh as he thought about it. No, they weren't wrong at all. He had definitely learned to enjoy the taste of the kill, the smell of the blood and fear. But really, was that such a bad thing? It had only made him a better captain and soldier, after all. The blade left his opponent’s body, bloodied and filthy. Much like both soldiers themselves.

A cannon went off, making Gaston jump in his place. The man he had killed fell to his knees and then on his face. Gaston looked at him with disgust, before withdrawing his hand pistol and firing at the soldier behind the enemy cannon. All Gaston could feel now besides grandeur was the bitter cold, pricking at his flushed skin, warm from the thrill of the fight. He grinned at the corpse at his feet and kicked it.

His first kill at eighteen. He had only gotten better with time, Gaston thought, stupidly proud of himself.

LeFou always warned him: Save your praise for when you’re safe. You’re deserving of it, more than anyone else, but not when you’re in danger.

Gaston couldn’t care less; in the battlefield, he was God. He made the rules, no matter how unorthodox and unfair, and he made his enemies pay for what they were doing to his country and to his men.

But, of course, _their_ men fought back. What reminded him of such was a bullet that crudely shot his hat off his head, leaving wild, untamed curls free to blow in the cold breeze. He turned to the offender quickly, rage twisting his features. With that same anger boiling his blood almost enough to make the frost beneath his booted feet melt, he walked up to the soldier that stood not far away from his right. His hand, the one that wasn’t balled up into a fist, ready to break someone’s nose or jaw, was clenching the handle of his beloved, gory sword. He put it to the throat of his attacker, who, out of fear, dropped his pistol. The soldiers near them were quick to flee — the stories about Captain Gaston’s fury were too many to be deemed untrue.

“I’ll give you the pleasure of choosing your last words,” said Gaston, pressing the blade closer to the man’s neck. No, not man. He didn’t have the face of a man, and he certainly didn’t have the eyes.

“ _Por favor_ ,” the soldier spoke, choked out words, as a single, clear tear ran down his cheek.

“What?”

The soldier’s forehead wrinkled in thought as he tried to remember the proper way to say it. His eyes opened swiftly. He seemed to have remembered the correct phrasing. His lips still twitched as he spoke the gentle, begging “S”. “Please.”

“ _Please_?” Gaston repeated, a scoff of skepticism blooming in his chest. “I’m not a man of compassion.”

“ _Eu não percebo_.” He was crying now, sobbing in such an ugly way Gaston could barely look him in the eye. There was a glassy hint of mucus threatening to leave his left nostril as the soldier cried uncontrollably. Gaston found him pathetic.

“How old are you?” He was either a coward or a child, and the possibility of being the latter burned Gaston’s chest.

“ _Quê_?”

His “What”, Gaston could tell it was a What, was similar to Gaston’s own. Frowning, he repeated the question. Then again, “Old. Age! What’s your age!?” After a fruitless reply, during which the soldier only sniffed and tried to stop the snot from leaving his nose by quickly wiping it to the back of his hand, and tears from running, Gaston groaned. “I’m eighteen years old. How old are _you_?”

“ _I_ _dade_!” the soldier said, almost triumphantly. His grin died on his lips when the reminder of a quick death pressed closer to his veins, drawing a faint drop of dark red blood. " _Catorze_ ,” he said. Then repeated again, with difficulty, “Fourteen.”

Gaston blinked. He was younger than Gaston had been when he joined the army, when they had made him Captain. He was a _child._ And Gaston had been about to kill said child. “Leave,” he said, withdrawing the sword with now dried brown blood tinting the shiny argent blade. “Leave!”

The boy nodded, laughing and crying. “ _Obrigado_! Thank you, _capitão_! Thank you!” he said, in a strong accent as he got up and ran.

Gaston stood there, watching him leave. The boy tripped and nearly fell as he ran back to his camp. Gaston’s stomach turned as he thought about that child. War was as cruel as it was on adults, aged twenty and up. Gaston knew what the war did to him, and to older men, as well, the nightmares and the hypervigilance, he could only imagine what it could do to a boy as young as fourteen. (He didn’t have to, really. Gaston had been a child sparing a child.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm working on +3 other chapters rn!! trying to get the writing style i had in these two bc i rly enjoyed the way i wrote them (i hope you guys did too!)


	36. Chapter 36

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i swear i havent abandoned this fic, im working on like 2 chapters rn, here's one i completely forgot i had written until recently!

Gaston sighed and turned to the window, watching as the people of Villeneuve went on their day, talking to each other, having fun, not being stuck in school. His chin sunk lower in his palm, as he followed with his gaze a busy woman with her daughters, off to do the laundry.

A ruler slammed on his desk, far too close to his hand, and he looked up, startled.

“You must know everything, no?” the headmaster said, his gravelly voice getting under Gaston’s skin.

“What?” was all Gaston could manage. His mind was filled with fog begging to be shaken off.

“To be staring out the window. Either you know everything I’m teaching you and you don’t need to be here or you think my classes are boring.” When Gaston didn’t reply, and simply stared dumbly at him, the headmaster spoke once more. “Of course, it could be both.”

“I’m sorry,” Gaston wanted to say. But he didn’t. He stayed silent, looking up at his teacher.

“Board.”

Gaston took in a breath and walked up to the big chalkboard that faced the entire class. There were words written on them, but Gaston didn’t have the patience to read them and the letters all seemed the same. He reached his small hand for the tiny piece of chalk that rested on the wooden ledge of the blackboard and pressed it softly against it.

“Write the phrase to your right, LeGume.”

Gaston bit his lip and peaked. He couldn’t tell anything written, except the big ‘U’ scribbled there. So he wrote a ‘U’, big and flowery like the headmaster had taught all his students to do.

“We’re waiting,” the headmaster rushed him, as Gaston’s hand began to sweat and his heart to race.

Christ, he was so stupid.

He stammered. “I don’t know what it says,” he finally admitted, when he had enough of the whispers behind his back and the fiery stare of his superior.

“You don’t know what it says,” repeated the headmaster, a certain tone of amusement to his voice.

“No,” confirmed Gaston, turning to him.

“I didn’t tell you to turn!” Gaston turned back to the chalkboard almost immediately, his heart now pounding for a completely different reason other than the fear of humiliation. “Can you even write your own name, LeGume?”

Gaston closed his eyes shut and took in a breath, trying to ignore the tear that tickled its way down the bridge of his nose. “Yes,” he lied.

“Really?”

“Yes,” he repeated, borderline angry at the treatment he was receiving.

“Prove it, then. Write your full name on the board.”

Gaston suppressed a sob. He knew this, he had trained this countless times with his father before. He _knew_ this. He wiped the tear as discreetly as he managed. Unfortunately, it hadn’t been enough, for his classmates laughed at him anyway.

With their cruel laughter ringing in his ears, Gaston moved to the corner of the board and began writing in his most careful and gentle handwriting, sliding the chalk softly over the blackboard.

He stepped away when he was done, biting the inside of his cheeks to avoid grinning. A good decision, for the headmaster began laughing at him in a matter of seconds, alongside the whole class.

“Christ. Gaston with two ‘t’s, you dumb shit? LeGume with two ‘m’s?”

Gaston opened his mouth to speak, to defend himself in some way, but he was unable to. He simply trembled from the shock of the headmaster’s harsh words.

“Who taught you to write? Your mother? That pathetic little woman?”

Gaston wasn’t sad anymore. No, now he was angry. “My mother isn’t pathetic—”

“If she had died instead of your father, perhaps I would have a real man in my class who can _write his own name_.” He snatched the piece of chalk from Gaston’s hand and scribbled over the extra ‘t’ and ‘m’ Gaston had given his name, then threw it on the wooden support. “You’re a hopeless case.”

“I’m…” He wasn’t even sure of what to say in his defense. To be frank, he didn’t even want to defend himself, all he wanted was tears to stop sprouting from his eyes and making him look _weak_. “I’m not hopeless,” he said, voice trembling but certain.

“You’re not—” The headmaster ran a rough, calloused hand over his face. Then he yelled, making every boy in the room, not just Gaston, jump. “You’re thirteen and you can’t even write your own goddamn name!”

Gaston’s breathing quickened and he blinked repeatedly to avoid a beating. “I, I,” he said, struggling with words.

“You _what_!? You’re a fatherless, stupid rat, Gaston, and that’s all you’ll ever be.” There was a pause, during which no one laughed or whispered. Where everyone simply listened to Gaston’s repressed sobs and strife to stop crying. “Go sit in the back, face to the wall.”

Gaston didn’t go, at first. He stood frozen in place as hot tears streamed down his cheeks. He got a smack in response to his disobedience. And then a ruler to the hands for not knowing how to preform such a simple task as writing his name.

Gaston wrapped one hand over the other and tried to make his knuckles stop burning as he made his way to the back of the room, to the small round bench that awaited him. A hand brushed against his elbow in a gentle show of affection. LeFou. Gaston smiled at his friend, a weak thing that didn’t last more than a second. Then he sat on the bench, facing the cold white wall that seemed to mock him for his stupidity.

The headmaster talked but Gaston was barely listening; his voice seemed to be muffled by Gaston's silent sobs. His gaze moved to his feet and he fixed it there, staring at his shoes as if they were the most interesting thing he'd ever seen. He wiped his eyes and dared to look over his shoulder. LeFou was trying very hard to write a word on the chalkboard.

“Just write _bird_! Bird!” the headmaster shouted.

Gaston stifled laughter when LeFou huffed and said, “You don't have to yell at me, I'm right here.” The rest of the room didn't choose to do the same as Gaston; they laughed harder than they had laughed at him, in fact. Gaston turned back to the wall when the headmaster turned his harsh features to the students.

“Quiet, you!”

Gaston frowned as he attempted to understand what was happening behind him. All he could hear was muffled laughter, and the unmistakable sound of chalk against slate. Then, yelled insults.

“Idiot! You're as foolish as him!” Gaston jumped and his heartbeat quickened unintentionally when the headmaster hit the board. It was terrifying. That _man_ was terrifying. “Spell your name.”

“L-E-F-U-O,” LeFou said and Gaston smiled despite himself. He was clearly sabotaging himself on purpose.

“You're… Go sit next to LeGume.”

“I wasn't done! My last name is, huh, C-A-R-I-N-O,” he spelled.

“Carino,” the headmaster said, confused to his core.

LeFou corrected him. “ _Cariño._ It's what my mother calls me, at least.”

The students laughed. Even Gaston did, as he turned to face the scene. His laughter died on his lips when the headmaster smacked LeFou.

“That's for trying to mock me,” he said as LeFou bowed his head. “Go sit next to LeGume.”

Gaston watched as LeFou dragged his chair over to Gaston’s side, a smile tugging at his lips. LeFou cleared his throat and sat by Gaston. “Can I see your hand?” he whispered and Gaston showed him his bruised, bleeding knuckles. Worry flashed over LeFou’s features and he bit his lip. “Does it hurt?”

Gaston shrugged. “I should be used to it,” he murmured, frowning. He _should_ , but the problem was just that, he wasn’t. And he didn’t think he’d ever be used to the headmaster’s harsh words and hands.

“Not really.”

“Silence!”

Both boys jumped in their seat, and Gaston turned over to find the headmaster writing something on the chalkboard. He could still see his and LeFou’s attempts at writing crudely erased from it. “Your cheek,” Gaston whispered urgently, as he turned back to LeFou.

“It just burns a little,” his friend said, his voice still low but filled with something. Gaston couldn’t tell what it was exactly, but he knew it was something sweet and warm; he could see it in LeFou’s eyes, as well.

“You shouldn’t have,” Gaston finally muttered, head down and eyes fixated on the wood floor below their chairs and feet.

“I didn’t do anything,” LeFou said. When Gaston glanced at him, a hint of a smile showed on his lips. Gaston stifled a laugh. “I’m just stupid and foolish.”

Gaston hit his knee in a playful reprimand. “You are _not_.”

“Gaston, I thought your name had two ‘t’s, as well,” he said, getting a muffled giggle in response. “I did!”

Gaston stopped smothering his laughter when he noticed the shadow that began to loom over their bodies. The headmaster. He pulled at Gaston and LeFou’s collars with rough hands and dragged them to the door. “If you find my class so boring and you think I’m worth mocking,” he spoke to the boys, turning from Gaston to LeFou, “then _leave_.” Then the door slammed closed in front of them.

A moment of silence went by, as they digested what had just happened. “My mother is going to kill me,” Gaston said. He was exaggerating, of course. His mother was barely ever conscious to even hear about his day, let alone punish him for it.

“I left my hat in there,” LeFou said, and Gaston laughed.

He pushed LeFou gently, jokingly. “You’re the best.”

LeFou simply grinned at Gaston, who then ruffled his hair.

“Let’s go, troublemaker. We might be fools,” Gaston said, in an over-the-top, encouraging voice, “but we’re smart enough to leave when we must!”


	37. Chapter 37

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm so sorry this took over 2 months

The sound of bullets filled the air, as well as rain and the smoke coming from each rifle. Several corpses were already displayed on the blood and water filled dirt below, mixing both liquids under the heavy, dark grey clouds. Gaston loaded his rifle once more, as fast as he managed. Body by body, the count began getting bigger and bigger. He could already feel the insults he’d have to endure from the General.

Weak.

Pathetic.

 _Coward_.

He paid fairly for the distraction he suffered, a bullet piercing his left bicep and sending him directly down to his knees. Gaston gripped his rifle tightly, knuckles turning pale, and took in rapid deep breaths, trying to dismiss the pain that spread from his wound. He put down his weapon carefully and, with a shaking hand, ripped part of his shirt to wrap around the injury. He didn't move. He felt too tired and too hurt to actually get back on his feet, which he was very sure were at least slightly bleeding by now, worn out from walking and running.

The battle went by fast — too fast, really — and, much to Gaston's frustration, he had to call for a retreat.

His yelled out words flew across the battlefield, sending the left over soldiers racing back as fast as their wounds let them. And while they struck relief in his men, in his enemies it was _glory_.

Oh, how Gaston despised the grin on the captain’s face, and how it mocked him and his failure. Gaston doubted there was anything worse than to look in your enemy’s eyes as they succeed and you are left behind, forgotten, defeated. Defeated. He hated that word.

He was Captain Gaston, he reminded himself, as his fingers traced the hand pistol tucked in his belt, as he watched the enemy captain turn around. With a swift movement, he loaded his pistol, then aimed, quickly but surely, at the soldier closest to him. He took in a breath, sure he’d already gone so far he couldn’t back down now, and perfected his aim, carefully targeting the man’s liver. He pulled the trigger and watched as the soldier fell to the ground as if he were a mere deer, killed by a greedy hunter that would soon realize that that deer wasn’t at all a deer, but a wolf instead. A wolf whose pack he had angered, and were now coming for him, the leader with a sword in hand.

Gaston smiled, welcoming the fight. He’d rather lose in a swordfight and be killed without mercy, than die by a pistol. It was much more personal, in his opinion, much more honorable, and he enjoyed that concept beyond words.

“Gaston!” He heard Tom yell from what seemed like far, far away. Gaston couldn’t really tell, his mind was too focused on ignoring the pain from his untreated wound and on fighting the Portuguese captain.

“ _Anda_ , _cabrão_! _Seu filho da puta_ , _gostas de matar inocentes_?”

“I don’t speak pig,” Gaston said with a grin. He unsheathed his sword, lips turning to a grimace, strong fingers gripping around the golden handle. “And you do not insult my mother,” he added; Portuguese wasn’t so different from French, after all. _Filho da puta_ and _fils de pute_ were one and the same, especially when it came to the tone it was delivered.

Gaston took a blow to the captain’s arm, the blade slicing it with ease, then put his filthy foot to his stomach. Snarling, he kicked him, sending him to the bloodied ground, to lie among all of his men. Both him and the enemy captain, that Gaston now knew to be named Augusto, were growing out of breath, but for entirely different reasons. Augusto from the kick to the stomach and slice to his arm, Gaston from the adrenaline pumping through his veins.

“Surrender.” The word sounded strong, heavy. Both a command and a death wish. Gaston stepped on Augusto’s ribs, the heel of his boot digging deeper into his chest. Augusto’s hands flew to Gaston’s heel, short, dirty nails scratching the coarse leather. With a snarl, Gaston shuffled for his hand pistol and loaded it swiftly. He was grinning, a spark of bloodlust in his eyes, when he pointed the barrel at the captain’s head. “Surrender!”

“Captain Gaston!” The unexpected shout made him jump, the gun slipping from his grip and landing on the bloodied grass. Augusto moved his hand to grab the weapon but a strong kick from Gaston’s boot to his wrist was enough to make him give up.

The man who had called his name yanked at his arm, throwing him off the enemy captain’s body and onto a cold, already rigid dead body. Gaston got up immediately, controlling his breathing to avoid emptying his stomach from the little food he had eaten before battle. The general handed him his pistol and Gaston snatched it off his hand, his rage controlling his every moves. The once glistening, silver barrel and perfectly varnished handle were both smeared with blood, sticky to Gaston’s touch.

“My tent. _Now_ ,” he ordered, and what could Gaston do but obey the man that looked so fiercely into his eyes? He huffed and followed him, not bothering to clean his pistol and sword as he sheathed them. Gaston knew what was going to happen (he had been told off about five times so far, and the only thing that changed was the date of the battle) but still he didn’t let himself be ashamed of it.

He strolled behind his superior with a raised chin, pride in his features, limping slightly due to his leg, as his soldiers watched, curiosity gleaming in their eyes. And worry, of course, clouding LeFou’s and his friends’.

“Sit down.” The order echoed inside the general's tent, wide and mostly empty except for a big wood table in the middle and bed by the edge. Gaston stole a glance at the map laid out on top of the table, four lit, melting candles on its corners.

Gaston sat on the general's bed, the work out mattress protesting under his weight. His vision was blurred, his knuckles turning white from how tightly he was gripping his breeches, in a desperate attempt to ignore the pain. “Get him a nurse,” the general ordered to the man that sat at his desk — his _aide-de-camp_. Then he walked up to Gaston, eyeing him down with those rodent-like eyes. “What you did… was unforgivable.”

Unforgivable. Another word his superior loved to throw around whenever he had to reprimand Gaston. His acts were unforgivable, his decisions were unforgivable, Christ, even Gaston himself was unforgivable.

“What would have happened, had I not arrived on time?”

Gaston clenched his jaw, not exactly out of knowing it was the better thing to do, but because he knew that there was a very high chance of soiling the general’s boots if he spoke.

“Answer me, Captain!”

Gaston forced a smile, bent over, and opened his mouth, letting the bread he had had before battle rise to his throat and fall down onto the ground, now a disgusting mush that barely didn’t touch the general’s leather boots. He spit on it before wiping his mouth to the back of his hand. “I would have killed him.”

“...You disgust me. You’re nothing but an immature, violent, reckless _child_.”

“I'm not a child,” he gritted out, anger boiling his blood. “Had I been a child, the King wouldn't have made me Captain, don't you agree?”

“General Jacques,” his _aide-de-camp_ called. “The nurse is here.”

“Send her in.”

The nurse, a short, dark skinned woman, stopped for a second at the entrance, her eyes having met with Gaston, who licked his lips and avoided any further awkward eye contact after. They had known each other intimately not long ago, to put it simply, and it wasn't the first time she kneeled before him.

“Captain,” she greeted, her head bowed.

“Madeline.” A blush on her cheeks her complexion hid.

“Where is the wound?”

Gaston reached for his arm, undid the amateur bondage around it, and began undoing his vest, then his shirt, both of them slowly, his eyes never leaving Madeline's face. The linen shirt shifted to reveal chiseled biceps and the crimson wound that began to show signs of infection.

Madeline reached for the bag that hung by her hip and withdrew a cloth. She balled it up and gently put it to Gaston's lips. “Bite this, please, sir.”

He smirked and did as asked, digging his teeth into it. He glanced at the general and stiffled a laugh -- he was looking at them with an expression that was both confused and outright exasperated.

“It's just going to hurt a little bit,” she whispered, her breath hot against his skin. And it did.

Gaston closed his eyes tightly, fingers gripping the cover of the general's bed, as Madeline's nimble fingers made use of a wet rag to clean his injury.

A scream, stifled by the cotton cloth. Quick, ragged breaths, as she wiped and wiped, and then gently patted the skin around the gaping wound. Tears welling in his eyes once he felt the sharp needle pierce his skin.

None of this stopped the general from lecturing him. “Irresponsible! You're nearly nineteen, yet you act as if you were a twelve year old child playing swords with your friends! How many times have I got to drag you in here and reprimand you until you learn your lesson, Captain?!” A pause, as if he were expecting Gaston to reply despite his gag. “You're putting not only _your_ life in line, but _your men's_. People with families! And their families aren't at fault yours is dead.”

Gaston growled, a guttural sound from deep within his throat.

“Should have known. I should have known having a Jew for a Captain was a ridiculous idea.”

Madeline's soft touch replaced the needle’s sharpness and she pulled at the gag, Gaston unclenching his jaw. “What is that supposed to mean?”

General Jacques was silent for a moment. “That we shouldn't have accepted—”

“Accepted?” Gaston scoffed. He hissed when Madeline bound his arm too tightly. “You don't have to accept _anything_. The King made me Captain, you have no say in the matter.”

“Well, I should have! Because it so appears that the man he made Captain, the one we heard so highly about, is nothing but a reckless child of a Jew!”

“What does that have _anything_ to do with the matter, right now?!”

“Everyone knows you can't trust Jews!”

Silence, interrupted only by Gaston's hisses and small grunts of pain. Madeline gently patted his now bound bicep. “You're all good. Make sure to visit the doctor's tent every week to change the bindings. And be careful, Captain.”

Gaston turned to her, eyebrows still burrowed. Her features, gentle and docile, calmed him. Or her eyes did, really; they reminded him of LeFou’s. “I shall,” was all he said before watching her raise to her feet, smooth down her dress, put away her things. “You should come by later,” he told her, as she turned from him and moved to walk out. “Show General Jacques someone in this company is still able to appreciate Jews.”

Jacques’ head snapped to look at Gaston, a certain fire in his rodent eyes. Gaston replied to the glare with a grin, which quickly faded once he began to dress his shirt and vest as slowly as he had undressed them.

“Christ.”

“What, _sir_?”

General Jacques shook his head, a hand shielding his closed eyes, as he exhaled exasperatedly. “May I ask you a question, Captain?” he asked, his voice rough and rude in contrast to the polite sentence.

“Yes, you may,” Gaston replied, getting up to his likely wounded feet.

“Why did you enlist?”

Gaston blinked, taken aback by such an inquiry. To be quite frank, he was expecting something of the “Is it true you drink children’s blood?” kind, not exactly something that would make Gaston question why he wore his uniform and title with such pride.

“Answer me,” he ordered through gritted teeth.

“I… I wanted to serve my country, of course,” Gaston lied. He had wanted to be a hero. He had wanted to have ladies swoon at his mere sight, at his mere mention. He had wanted to wear the dashing attire he had always seen soldiers wear in the illustrations of his sister’s books. He had wanted to be loved by all. He had wanted to have had everything he hadn’t the chance to have when he was a child.

“Then stop killing its men.”

Gaston clenched his jaw, the burden of his conscience that he had always made sure stayed far behind in the back of his head coming back to weigh on his shoulders. “I’m afraid you’ll have to ask Monsieur Augusto for such a thing. I’m their captain, not their enemy, General.”

“They’re one and the same, no? You’re both killing them at an alarming rate. Besides… I’ve heard your mother would be siding with them had her parents not come to France.”

Gaston blinked, a huff escaping his lips. “Do not speak of my mother.”

“Why shouldn’t I? She’s Portuguese, is she not?”

“Shut it.”

“And she taught you _those_ manners? Women are supposed to be calm, aren’t they? Composed, gentle, submissive. Perhaps, that’s only French women. In Portugal they sure do sound more rude—”

“My mother has nothing to do with how I behave!”

“No… No, you’re… you’re absolutely right, my bad, Captain.” He put a wrinkled finger to his thin lips and tapped them gently as he clicked his tongue. “No, perhaps…” General Jacques moved to pick up an unopened bottle of wine that lay on top of the stained map that covered the table. “We should blame her drinking.”

“H-How—”

“Villeneuve is a small village, Gaston,” was his answer. “And rumors are, well, spread quite easily. Specially rumors such as a mother drinking herself to a stupor every night because of her husband’s death. Leaving her child to take care of himself, to work at a tavern full of nothing but drunk adult men. That intrigues me.”

“Shut it,” Gaston repeated, a shaking hand slowly moving to his hand pistol.

“How can the son of drunkards, who was… neglected by both, who clearly would have bad memories related to alcohol… be a drunkard himself? It makes no sense—”

The pistol was now put to the general’s jaw, the barrel digging into his loose skin. “Shut up about my parents. Alright? Or I swear to the Lord, I will pull the trigger and you will be nothing but an old carcass.”

“A bullet for me, the gallows for you.”

Gaston closed his eyes and took in a sharp breath, withdrawing the weapon immediately. “I apologize,” he murmured, despite both men being aware he didn’t mean it.

“Of course,” General Jacques replied. He grinned, his teeth still there, sharp and malicious, making Gaston desire he had never done such a thing.

Yes, Gaston hated to see his enemies thrive, he despised it. But he wasn’t sure if he despised his general’s harsh and humiliating words any less.


End file.
